


By the Pricking of My Thumbs

by Fee_Folay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Angst, Animal Death, Dark Magic, Infidelity, Mind Control, Multi, Non Consensual, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fee_Folay/pseuds/Fee_Folay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Arthur Pendragon’s destiny to unite all of Albion, but a reign of such power will not be won without sacrifice and bloodshed. When Morgana uses dark magic to lay a trap for Merlin, she unwittingly aids Merlin in becoming the weapon Arthur needs to defeat his enemies. With Arthur, and all of Camelot, at his mercy, Merlin struggles not to become that which he fears most – a dark sorcerer.<br/>Will Arthur be drawn into a deadly battle with his friend and lover?<br/>Will Merlin ultimately be destroyed by the malice lurking within his soul?<br/>Will Camelot fall to the evil that Morgana has unleashed upon them all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Pricking of My Thumbs

  


_By the pricking of my thumbs  
Something wicked this way comes._

_**Shakespeare – Macbeth** _

####  _

**The End at the Beginning**

_

#### 

*********

-

 

They stand side by side, overlooking the valley, the king and his warlock, contemplating the present, seeing the future. In the distance, the fires of the enemy camp send trails of smoke into the sky. Pennants stand out in slashes of bright color across the field, and metal clangs against metal. Horses nicker. Someone barks out an order. Birds, started into flight by the tramp of feet, wheel across the sky. Yet, despite the noise and chaos of an army making ready for war, there is a hushed stillness to the air, as if all the world is holding its breath, awaiting the coming battle.

Into that stillness slice words; sharp, clear, cutting through all pretence, like shards of glass tumbling from a broken pane. “Can you do it?”

A sigh, a whispered truth. “You know I can, My King.” So composed in the face of the gathering storm and the culmination of years of preparation. 

So this was the destiny they were born for, the one set for them before they even drew their first breaths? What choice had they ever really had?

“Will you?” Flat, emotionless. An effort made, at least, to withhold judgment. That small mercy twists tightly around Merlin’s heart, binding him far more securely than any oath he might have sworn. As if he could ever deny this man anything. 

And unspoken, the silent petition, _‘Will you sell your soul for me?’_

“I will,” he breathes, both answering the question voiced and accepting the sacrifice implied. It is not as though he is innocent. He has killed for Arthur before - just never on a scale such as this.

Finally, Arthur pulls his attention away from the sweeping valley and turns to Merlin. The blue eyes are shadowed, haunted with the ghosts of things past and events to come, but the handsome face is steadfast beneath the golden crown, the shoulders squared and determined. The king studies Merlin with the same intensity he does an opponent with whom he is about to battle. Arthur, who approaches everything with straight-forward, blunt honesty, searches deeply - struggling to read Merlin’s heart - seeking weaknesses and truths and the quiet tells others might miss. And those eyes miss little these days. They have learned each other well – perhaps too well. “You understand what I am asking? What it will entail?”

Neither of them needs to speak of the men who will die this day merely because they are on the wrong side of the battle lines. Men who will be unable to stand against the powers of Camelot’s sorcerer and will fall before his magic like sheep lead to slaughter. Men who have families, wives and children who will wait in vain for them to return.

“I understand.” Crisp acceptance. And of the two of them, it is Merlin who truly does understand, who knows just how his magic can burn, like liquid acid, eating from the inside out. How it can destroy, tearing things apart in a whirlwind of energy. How it can kill. 

And still Arthur protests, almost as though he feels he must since it appears Merlin will not. “There are too many of them. We can’t…”

Merlin holds up a quelling hand, wishing he could spare Arthur this – could take the burden from him completely. He will do as much as he is able. “I know, Arthur. I’ve always known.” 

And yet, there had been a time when the future had seemed such a golden, wondrous thing. But that time has long passed. Now, he sees that the world of men does not allow for perfection, and any destiny on this plane of existence will necessarily be tarnished by human fallibility. “This is my destiny, and yours.”

“Is it?” Pendragon snorts, echoing Merlin’s own thoughts. There is such pain in the king’s eyes, a million small hurts between them. “I wonder. You, the boy who cried over unicorns and knocked himself silly falling out a tree because he was trying to put a baby bird back in the nest?”

Merlin lets a smirk tug the corner of his mouth; because this he will do for Arthur as well, find a smile in the midst of destruction. “If I do this, I will still rescue baby birds.”

And for a moment, the shadows draw back, and blue eyes are laughing at him. “Will you? And kittens too, I suppose. And every wretched lost cause that comes along.”

“Including you.” But it is only a moment, and Merlin can not hold it. The truth is too heavy, even for him. He ducks his head, feeling like his neck will snap under the burden of this destiny he must carry. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

The hand that falls upon his shoulder is strong and supportive, the voice soft with affection. “So do I.”

Merlin keeps staring at the ground, his attention caught by the dark green leaves and delicate, blue flowers of the small shrub at his feet. Sorcerer’s Violet - how ironic - growing here, a burst of hope and renewal amidst these dark times. He wonders if it will survive the tramp of thousands of feet, the churn of wagon wheels and horses hooves. Not likely. Like all fragile things, it will be ground beneath the weight of war and destiny. 

He crouches down, and plucks one of the flowers, turning it lightly in his fingers. A warm breeze gently stirs the grasses and ruffles Merlin’s hair as he gazes out over the field, envisioning a battle that has yet to begin. Maybe, if all that is meant ultimately comes to pass – perhaps there will be a time of peace and prosperity, a time in which fragile things can flourish.

“I think…” he murmurs, straightening, flower twirling in his long fingered grasp, “the next time you see Morgana you should thank her.”

Oh, that gets Arthur’s attention. He turns with a flurry of red robes, and a gloved hand tightens on Excalibur’s hilt with such fierce anger that Merlin hears the leather creak against metal. 

“Morgana?” Arthur’s voice has that high pitch he has never truly lost when he is surprised or shocked, the one that harkens back to their first youthful days together. “She is the one who brought us to this! The next time I see that witch I would want nothing more than to put a blade to her throat! Why thank her? After all she has done to you? To us? Why would you say such a thing?”

“In a way, she has helped. Before…” The word hangs between them for a moment, a fulcrum point on their journey together, a crossroads. _“Before”_ and _“after”_ \- there was no need to say more. “Before….” Merlin repeats, “this would have been far more difficult. I would have done whatever you asked of me, but it would have hurt. It would have damaged me, and you would have blamed yourself for it.”

Arthur is watching him again, mouth grim. “It won’t damage you now?”

Merlin sighs, crushing the small blue flower in his hand and letting it flutter to the ground. “I am already damaged, Sire. Thanks to Morgana.” The look he gives Arthur is choked with regret, but also resigned. “And she did help forge me into a weapon you can wield.” He holds Arthur’s gaze, willing him to acknowledge the raw verity of his words. “She awoke the darkness within me and set it free, when I would have kept it locked away. She showed me how to embrace it, harnessing and bending it to my will, when I would have denied it. She taught me lessons I had to learn if I am to help you to become ruler of all Albion.” Reaching out, he runs two fingers down the side of Arthur’s face, tracing the line of his cheek and jaw. “I find I am grateful I learned it at her hand and not your own. I am not certain I could have forgiven you for what you would have had to ask of me, and I know you would not have forgiven yourself.”

“Merlin…” Arthur’s hand rises to capture the warlock’s fingers in his own, holding them. His eyes flicker over Merlin’s features as though seeking something, but the confusion in his eyes suggests even he does not know what he is searching for; a boy from Ealdor? The greatest sorcerer the world has ever known? A lover? A fool? 

Echoes of the past. 

Or promises of the future.

“Go now,” Merlin tells him. “Ready your men. Leave me to my work. And when this day is done, we will both know what the cost must be.” The corner on his mouth lifts and he raises Arthur’s hand to kiss the fingers, letting his lips warm the royal ring of office. “I shall gladly serve you till the day I die, Arthur Pendragon, my king.”

A hand gently cradles the crown of his head, and a rough voice admonishes, “See that this isn’t that day, my warlock.” 

Then the light and warmth bleed away as Arthur turns and strides across the field, leaving Merlin alone to face his destiny.

####  _

**The Beginning of the End**

_

#### 

*********

-

 

Having the most powerful sorcerer alive, perhaps the most powerful ever born, in fealty to Camelot, was a distinct advantage. If King Arthur occasionally awoke gasping and tangled in damp sheets, his mind reeling from troubled dreams - dreams in which Merlin turned that great power against him and Camelot, calling down fire from the skies while Arthur watched Camelot burn – well, he would never say. Such thoughts were nothing more than phantom fears and he refused to entertain them. 

True, Merlin had lied to him. There had been some thorny days of reckoning, but that was long in the past and well forgiven. Even during the times of secrets and lies, Merlin had never hurt him. And all he had done, every sin committed, had been for Arthur and for Camelot. Arthur believed that. He never doubted Merlin loved him. That Merlin would die for him. 

He trusted Merlin implicitly. 

In the end, that was their undoing.

####  _

Reign of King Arthur. Year II:

_

#### 

*********

-

 

The folks who occupied the lands surrounding the castle ruins were simple peasants. Their village was small, appearing on no map, and bearing no official name. A huddle of rough-hewn cruck houses built close for comfort and protection, the town was referred to by locals as, “the village below El Mago’s castle”. Those who lived there tilled the soil, tended their crops, herded their livestock, and did not speak much of the crumbling fortress perched upon the crag in the distance. When they did mention it, it was in whispers as they spoke of eerie green mists, glowing balls of light and distant shrieks in the night. The castle was haunted, or so said the locals, and had been for many a generation. 

The youths of the town would sometimes gather in small clusters to try and outdo each other with talk of dog-headed men hiding in the hills, or soul-eating demons. Frustrated mothers might scold their babes with stories of flying harpies who would carry away naughty children. Men would boast of having spent the night inside the tumbled walls of the castle, though they were never able to bring forth any witnesses.

But it was the elders in the village who would take their time in the telling as they sprawled against the trunk of a great old tree, or sat rocking in a chair by the hearth. Leisurely, they would parcel out the stories like trinkets and baubles to be unwrapped by the audience. The best of them could stretch the tale to last a cold winter evening, warming the gathered crowd with adventures to stir the blood, or perhaps fill a lazy summer afternoon with a slow-building narrative that kept their listeners in open-mouthed wonder. Though the accounts varied in the telling, and the storytellers did not agree on all of the particulars, the basics remained the same.

The fortress had belonged to a great sorcerer, El Mago Abaiub. A powerful master of the dark arts, Abaiub had come from across the sea. Some claimed he commissioned the castle to be built, paying the costs with gold and jewels stolen from dragons he had slain. Hundreds of slaves were brought from fall off lands and forced to labor for years. Then, when the last stone had been set into place, Abaiub had all of the slaves killed, and used their blood to consecrate the ground. Others swore the sorcerer had built it himself, taking less than a day to lift the rocks out of the very dirt beneath his feet and send them into a great whirlwind. When the winds dissipated, the castle stood, complete and impenetrable.

However the stronghold had been build, all agreed that El Mago Abaiub had been powerful and much afeared. So much so that other magic users became concerned he would try to take over all the lands near and far. They determined he must be stopped, and gathered together the most gifted among them to send against him. Some storytellers claimed dozens of magicians converged upon the castle. Other mentioned only three: Mog, the Weaver of Dreams; Senach the Brave; and the Lady Delphina. Whichever account was given, the three were always at the center of the tale. Mog was said to have been able to create such illusions in the mind that he could drive men mad. Senach was described as fifty fathoms tall, and as strong as a hundred men. Delphina was said to have been a witch so beautiful that merely to look upon her was to fall in love. Together they faced El Mago Abaiub in challenge. A challenge he accepted. 

The battle raged for a full turn of the seasons, as one by one the magicians fell to Abaiub’s magic. In the end, his castle tumbling down around him, El Mago had faced down the last of his enemies, the lovely Delphina. He struck her down, and as she lay dying in his arms, her beauty so captivated him that he fell deeply in love. Her death pierced his heart, and he slowly withered away to nothing within the remnants of his once magnificent fortress. 

And so the story went, give or take a few embellishments added by whoever told the tale.

However, that was not the end, for it was said that the spells cast and the magics called forth during this Great War were of such power that they lingered even after the sorcerers had fallen. Anyone venturing within the walls of the castle upon the rocky hilltop would be cursed a thousand times, or so the local folks believed. 

The villagers felt that the haunted butte served to discourage those who might do them harm; thus, they formed an uneasy alliance with the castle ruins, and kept their distance. So when lights began to appear in the night, and some of the village boys claimed to have seen a lady dancing naked atop the tor, the locals hung rue and fennel in their doorways, threw bundles of mistletoe into the flames of bonfires, and went on about their daily lives. 

No one dared investigate further.

If they had, they would, indeed, have caught glimpses of a woman wandering amidst the ruins; a ghostly beauty, slender and pale, with a waterfall of dark, tangled tresses. Like a specter, she haunted the fallen fortress, trailing her hands over the stones as she sang to herself, or spoke to someone who was not there, a spirit she called, “dear sister.” The woman seemed lost in a realm only she could see, her eyes wide and wild, and her smile sometimes dreamy, sometimes cruel.

The townsfolk knew only a portion of the truth about the crag above their village. The tor was indeed a place of strong magic, but the powers that soaked the earth upon the hilltop had existed long before El Mago Abaiub. Indeed, they were the reason he had chosen the location for his fortress. The ridge had been a pulsing heart of corrupt energies, ancient sacrifices, and death from time out of mind. El Mago Abaiub had only been the last to take advantage of those forces. 

And now, the witch, Lady Morgana, had come to harness those dark powers to her advantage. Far from the light of Camelot, amongst the fallen stones of El Mago’s fortress, she began preparing her gambit. The object of her attention, a carved wooden box, sat upon an ancient altar, the surface of which was stained with blood spilled long ago to appease hungry gods. Crooning songs of power and spitting archaic curses, Morgana ran her fingers sensuously over the wood, tracing deeply etched symbols and runes, imbuing them with her energies. Weaving her magic, she teased and wrenched the primal forces from the earth, stone, and air. They came to life around her, shimmering in the air, whipping her hair into frenzy, and sparking from her fingertips. They twisted and writhed, struggling to break free, but she bound them to her biding with spells and incantations.

It was not Morgana’s intention to strike at Arthur Pendragon directly, for she knew that, despite her best efforts, it was unlikely she would manage to slip anything past the king’s pet sorcerer and most determined watchdog, Merlin Emrys. 

Throwing her head back, her slender white neck arched, Morgana cackled with wild abandon, drunk on certainly and anticipation.

No. This snare was meant to entrap the mage himself – and knowing Merlin as well as she did, Morgana intended to lure him in with bait she knew he could not resist.

####  _

Reign of King Arthur. Year III:

_

#### 

*********

-

 

Thanks to the example set by Sir Lancelot and his penchant to go questing all over Albion, young knights who held hopes of winning the king’s favor had taken to gallivanting far and wide on all sorts of imaginative adventures. Arthur found the whole thing a bit bemusing, but his council had convinced him the practice was helpful. Having companies of knights scouring his lands did allow Arthur to get a better feel for the people and events farther a field than he was likely to ride. It also kept manageable the number of young knights who had descended upon Camelot in hopes of serving their beloved new king. 

It was upon one such expedition that a battered wooden chest was discovered locked in the last standing remnant of a ruined castle. The local folks spoke of ancient magics, an omnipotent sorcerer, and a great magical battle. The chest itself seemed to thrum with a power that left even the most stalwart of the small band of knights shifting uneasily. However, King Arthur had passed a decree that all magical objects were to be returned to Camelot and given into the care of Merlin Emrys. Emrys, the court sorcerer, was collecting such talismans in hopes of restoring knowledge of the magical arts. So the knights wrapped the casket in a cloak and rode with it back to Camelot. And if they agreed to take turns carrying the box because none of them could stand to have it close for long, it remained a thing not mentioned.

####  _

**The Tale As Told**

_

#### 

*********

-

 

The first note King Arthur had delivered to his court sorcerer was precise and to the point. The small curl of parchment read simply,  
-

    

  
_M._   


    

  


    

  
_It has been two days. Come down._   


    
  
    

  
_A._   


    

-

He had begun to worry that his warlock might have managed to magic himself completely out of existence; however, Merlin’s latest apprentice had laid those fears to rest. Confronted while returning with yet another tray of untouched food gone cold, the lad had assured the king that behind his emphatically bolted door, Merlin was still dallying about with his newest puzzle – that accursed box. 

So King Arthur had scratched out the quick message and sent it along with the gawky, knob-kneed boy who Arthur seemed to recall was Sir Ulfic’s youngest. Though, that might have been the previous apprentice, as Merlin did tend to go through them with distressing frequency – dismissing them with a gentle, “So sorry, but this just won’t do,” and a kerchief full of sweetmeats.

Then the king waited the rest of that day.

The second dispatch was a bit more forceful. It was wound with a bright red ribbon, and Arthur entrusted it to the nervous boy to deliver to Merlin along with a basket of the warlock’s favorite tarts. It turned out the servant was not Ulfic’s youngest - Arthur had asked Gwen, because Gwen knew such things - but rather a page with the unlikely name of Malachias d'Armentieres, which seemed a very grand name for such a mouse of a boy. 

-

    

  
_Merlin,_   


    
  
    

  
_I order you to come down._  
I am King of Camelot. I can do that.  


    
  
    

  
_Arthur_   


    

-

Merlin did not appear.

-

The third note was written on finest parchment and sealed with a wax stamp bearing the official signet of Camelot. The wide-eyed apprentice took it with shaking hands. For a moment, Arthur feared the boy might wet himself, but he scampered off without mishap. 

-

    

  
_Merlin Emrys,_   


    
  
    

  
_If you do not come down now, I shall have your servant beaten in your stead and thrown in the stocks. Then I shall send my guards to break down your door and haul you off to the oubliette._   


    
  
    

  
_Arthur Pendragon_  
King of Camelot  
And someday perhaps all of Albion  
Or so you keep telling me  


    

-

Arthur had never been good at patience, and so, it was not long after sending this third request that he found his feet to carrying him towards the East Tower. He paused on the spiral staircase to Merlin’s chamber, expression rueful as he twirled a pale yellow blossom between his fingers. The flower was one of the first harbingers of spring, and he had picked it in a moment of wistful sentimentality whilst walking in the castle gardens. It was silly really, a foolish, girlish gesture, but he had it had been nearly four days since Merlin had locked himself away with that bedeviling wooden box, and Arthur missed him. 

With a heavy sigh, he started to pull himself up the remaining steps to Merlin’s tower room but hesitated when he heard the shuffle of careful footsteps approaching down the stairs. He leaned against the curving stone walls and waited, trying to appear appropriately royal and aloof.

Merlin started talking even before Arthur caught the first glimpse of his deep blue robe at the bend of the stairwell. “You would never beat a child, and you got rid of the stocks last year.”

Arthur tried for forbidding, for all the good it would do. “I am thinking of restoring them just for you.”

“I’m flattered,” came the rejoinder as Merlin began to emerge from the gloom. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“That too.” Then the bright blue eyes moved from shadow into the light from one of the narrow tower windows, and they were laughing at him. “Hello, Arthur.”

“Hello, Merlin.” And despite his resolve to remain detached, he found himself closing the space between them. He grasped Merlin by the upper arms and frowned. The long face was far too pale under the unruly mop of dark hair, the eyes bruised with exhaustion. “What are you doing to yourself? You look like you haven’t slept in days, and I know you are not eating.”

“I’m fine, Arthur, really,” Merlin insisted, looking ridiculously boyish in his velvet court robe, like a gawky child playing dress up. “I’m just…” His pale hands fluttered in the dim light, like trapped doves seeking a window. “That chest... it’s… I can’t…”

Arthur’s frown grew more pronounced. “I don’t like it.”

Merlin sighed, long suffering and patted Arthur’s cheek. “You’re nurse-maiding.”

“Apparently, you need it.” 

For just a moment, Merlin let himself sag, his head dropping forward, body curling, and just breathed. Arthur’s hand came to cup the back of the dark head, heart clenching painfully. The years of Uther’s war against magic were over, but the shared fears of Merlin being discovered were still fresh enough to send cold fingers down his spine at the sight of that vulnerable neck, bent as though in supplication. 

Then Merlin pulled back, looking a bit embarrassed, shifting uncomfortably within his heavy robe. 

Arthur’s mouth twitched as he held out the flower. “For you,” he offered, voice almost shy.

Merlin plucked it from his fingers, brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I sent Malachias after agrimony.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to slap his court sorcerer across the back of the head. Tempting as it was, it really would not be dignified. “It’s a flower, Merlin. A token of affection. You give it to people to show you care.”

The confused expression did not clear, and Arthur threw his arms wide with a totally unnecessary but very satisfying dramatic flare. “I haven’t seen you in three days! The court is wondering if you’ve run off with the dragon or something. I feel I’m being made a cuckold in favor of a…” He waved a hand vague towards the top of the stairs, “a moldy old box!” 

Merlin’s mouth had that little bow shaped quirk which meant he was trying very hard not to smile. “Feeling neglected, are we, Sire?’

Arthur lips flattened peevishly. “There was a time you wouldn’t leave my side. I distinctly remember having to order you out of my rooms.” He shook his head, subsiding with a mock expression of devastation, “Where has the romance gone?”

“Don’t be silly,” Merlin chided, his clever fingers dangling in Arthur’s doublet as he pushed the king back against the curve of the wall. Warm, sweet lips began nibbling a path up Arthur’s neck. 

“Merlin…” but Arthur really did not want to protest. This was something they rarely allowed themselves. The court might suspect his relationship with Merlin was a bit more intimate that merely Lord and advisor, but they didn’t go about flaunting it by groping each other in the passageways. 

“Hmm?” Merlin hummed into the sensitive skin behind his ear. Then teeth latched onto his ear, and Arthur gasped. 

“I missed you.”

“I know,” Merlin purred in his ear. “I gathered that from your love notes.” 

“They weren’t… love notes,” Arthur ground out, struggling to find breath for his words. “They were royal edicts, which you… ignored… as usual.” Pulling a deep breath in through his nose, he gently pushed Merlin away, holding him at arm’s length. Tempting as it was, he was not going to have a tumble there on the stairs. “Come down,” he said tenderly. “Have a decent supper. Tell me about your precious box.”

Merlin considered, head cocked like a bright-eyed bird. “Will there be almond pudding?”

“There will be whatever you desire,” Arthur assured him. There were some advantages to being king after all.

“Whatever, I desire?” And oh, that expression was deliciously wicked and sent shivers of anticipation down Arthur’s spine.

“Stay with me tonight,” he said, catching those tempting lips again for a slow taste. He wanted it to sound like a command, but he suspected it came out more as a question, or even worse, a plea. Merlin had never responded well to commands. 

Merlin’s smile was soft with sweet affection. “Of course, My Liege,” he acquiesced and slid his fingers into Arthur’s own.

Together they wound their way down the stairs.

-

#### 

*********

  


Merlin was gone from the king’s bed when he woke in the morning, but his chambers were ablaze with color, festooned with flowers of every variety he knew and many he did not. Their perfume was thick and sweet, and Arthur laughed loud and long when he read the small folded card set beside his bed.

    _You wanted romance, My King?_

It took the chambermaids two hours to clear the flowers from the room and deliver them throughout the castle keep.

-

#### 

*********

-

Three days later, King Arthur once again approached the room at the top of the East Tower. Even Malachias had been banished at this point, and Arthur was truly worried. He could see Gaius was troubled as well, from the way his lips pursed sourly every time that damnable casket was mentioned. 

When Arthur banged his fist against the thick, oaken door set with intricate iron hinges, he was not certain Merlin would allow him entrance. This regardless of the fact he was the king – a state of affairs that made little impression upon his court sorcerer. In that aspect, Merlin had changed little from the impudent boy had attempted to strike the crown prince upon their first introduction.

Sometimes Arthur missed those days, when Merlin had been nothing more than a clumsy, impertinent servant. Things had been much simpler then. Merlin had been there, his to command, always at his side, Now there were days Merlin seemed to struggle to remain a part of the mortal world, his eyes gone unfocused and expression longing as he gazed at sights to which Arthur remained blind. On those days, Arthur saw Merlin’s magic as an enemy, one that would gladly steal his friend away to realms where Arthur could never set foot. It frightened him, the thought he might one day lose Merlin his wild magic; that Merlin could simply vanish, swallowed up by his own power. 

And so standing before the door to his sorcerer’s chamber, Arthur braced himself for what he might find. He was contemplating whether he would go so far as to have the barrier broken down when he heard the low scrape of the bolt being drawn, and the door creaked slowly open. 

Naturally, Merlin was nowhere near the arched doorway, but rather across the room leaning over his battered and stained worktable. He did not look up as Arthur entered, but waved a vague hand in his direction, which sent the door swinging shut and the bolt slamming home.

Arthur glanced around as he stepped further into chambers. The room was as familiar as his own, and yet never remained the same visit to visit. While the furniture might be unchanged, it tended to shift location, and there were always new and unusual objects popping up and disappearing. Today, there was an exotic colored bird watching him from a branch of a tree growing in the middle of the room, and down one wall hung a tapestry which he did not believe had been there previously. It depicted a castle, and as Arthur looked closer, it appeared the little woven inhabitants were actually moving, going about their daily lives while presided over by a fair haired king standing atop a turret. In one tower, a court magician wearing a bright purple conical hat was conjuring a dragon out of pink smoke. 

The small antics brought a smile, but the tingle of amusement lasted only a moment. Something about the room was weighing him down like heavy armor. The chamber, usually a welcoming sanctuary from the cares of the court, seemed dipped in inky shadows that skittered just at the edges of his vision.

“Come and see,” Merlin directed, waving him over towards the main worktable. The warlock looked even worse than the last time Arthur had seen him, his face having taken on the pinched look of starving children, and his hands trembling with exhaustion as they flittered through the air. His eyes, however, burned with an intense thirst for knowledge that Arthur knew he could neither control nor deny.

As he approached the rickety table, he could better see the magical box that had seemingly seduced his sorcerer, chaining him to the tower room for days. The small, wooden chest, so old and brimming with loathsome secrets, filled him with dread. The weight of it was oppressive, and Arthur struggled to pull air into his lungs. 

When the box had first arrived in Camelot, being carried to the throne room by Sir Baldwin, the presence of the ancient, carved chest had left Arthur shifting in disquiet, his fingers tightening until his knuckles whitened upon the arms of his throne. The passage of days had not lessened the thick apprehension that seemed to press down upon him in the presence of it. His instincts screamed that there was danger here, but he did not know how to voice his suspicions in a way that Merlin would accept. He knew his friend would likely dismiss his worries as residual distrust of all things magical. 

“Merlin…” he began, trying to find a way to rationalize his foreboding, but the mage grasped him around the wrist and tugged him closer. 

“Watch this,” Merlin requested, voice flush with excitement as he began to run his hands over the chest. His narrow frame vibrated with tension, like the string of a rebec* pulled taut. The runes shimmered golden in the wake of Merlin’s slender fingers as he traced them over the etched symbols. His velvet robes whispered in a language of their own as he bent closer, blowing breath over the marks and watching in keen delight as they flared in response. “See? Did you see?” He peered up at Arthur with a hopeful, wide-eyed expression which Arthur understood all too well, having spent years of his childhood seeking recognition and approval from a father who held him at a distance. 

“Yes, I see,” he answered, hand closing on Merlin’s shoulder in support, and hoping his words would be praise enough. He could not offer more when he felt so strongly that the casket was best left alone. “Have you learned what it is?” He kept his voice hushed as he fought the ridiculous impression that if spoke too loudly he would awaken whatever it was that dwelled within the box. 

“I don’t know,” voice equally soft, but with reverence, not apprehension. “But it’s magic. Strong magic. ”

He tried for a light tone. Perhaps he could tease Merlin out of this obsession. “You do remember what happened last time you mucked around with a box containing something magical, or have you forgotten about that unpleasant affair with the goblin?” At the time, Arthur had been unaware it was Merlin who had released the fey creature, which was likely for the best. Even upon hearing the tale years later, he had been quite peeved. The indignity of that particular enchantment was not something easily forgiven.

“I have learned a few things since then,” Merlin replied dryly. “I don’t think you need worry about donkey-ears this time.” He shot Arthur a small grin. “Though Gwen did say you were adorable.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you….” Arthur spread his hands, searching for the words to explain his fears. Years of working alongside Merlin had given him a sense of magic –sometimes he imagined he could feel the fresh tingle of it in the air around Merlin, smell the spice of it on his breath, taste the honey of it on his lips when he crawled into Arthur’s bed after a long night casting spells. But where Merlin’s magic made Pendragon think of summer storms and growing things…

This box…

This box breathed corruption and death.

“But I feel this box… it is dangerous.” 

He wanted to say, _‘It’s evil’_ but he kept his tongue. Merlin would only give him one of those disapproving looks, his eyes conveying disappointment and perhaps even a tincture of hurt as he clucked, repeating the old argument, _‘Arthur, how many times have we discussed this? Magic is neither good nor evil. It is merely a tool, just as your sword is a tool.’_

But this was evil. Arthur didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.

“Hmmm,” Merlin considered, brow furrowed, fingers running lightly over the wood of the casket. “It’s powerful, yes, but that does not mean it is necessarily dangerous.”

“It was likely hidden away for a reason.” It was probably a worthless effort, this protest. He knew that look on Merlin’s face, that childlike curiosity and passion to uncover secrets. Still, he would be remiss if he did not express his doubts. 

“Yes.” Merlin’s voice had gone flat and angry. It was a tone Arthur rarely heard from his friend, and as always, it felt wrong, as ill matched to Merlin as a full suit of armor. “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? What with the ban on magic and losing your head and all.”

“Merlin.” Just a hint of warning, but Merlin gazed back, unfazed and unrelenting. The servant boy may have become court sorcerer and closet advisor to the king, but that had done nothing to tame the insubordinate streak that Arthur found every bit as vexing now as he had the first day they met. 

“I think we should get rid of it,” he said, trying to make it sound like an order and not a question. Not that it would make any difference.

And there was that look he had tried so to avoid, the one that managed to make the King of Camelot feel like a wayward child. “That’s not how it works. You told me from the outset, I would have the final word when it comes to things magical. Everything else I leave to you.”

Oh yes, he knew that stubborn set to the jaw and narrowed eyes. Merlin was digging in. 

“ _Mer_ lin…” he drew the name out, making it plain this was no light matter. “I am still King!”

The eyebrows rose, “Have I said otherwise?”

“And when the king gives and order, it is meant to be obeyed!”

“Of course!” And God’s teeth if the blasted man wasn’t smirking.

Arthur sighed, feeling as though he was trying to find his footing on shifting sand. “But you are not going to.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Arthur did not trust that for a moment, but perhaps he had misjudged the situation. “So… you are going to? Get rid of it?”

“Eventually.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and wondered if it had ever been this difficult for his father. Likely not. He would never have tolerated Merlin’s insolence. Sometimes he entertained the idea of sending Merlin to the dungeons for the night, just to remind him who was actually supposed to be in charge, but one look at those wide trusting eyes under a mop of unruly hair, and he knew he never could. “Eventually?” he repeated, glaring at Merlin. This battle might have been forfeit from the beginning, but that did not mean he had to make it easy.

“After I open it. I am very close now.”

“But Merlin!” He threw his hands wide in frustration. “That rather defeats the whole purpose of getting rid of it!”

And Merlin was smiling with that reckless assurance that everything would work out. “Don’t worry so, My Liege. I know what I am doing.” 

“Do you?” And he was worried. He was very worried. But Merlin was right. Arthur had promised to trust his word when it came to magic. “Because if you endanger Camelot…”

And the boyish good humor bled away to be replaced with something far older and unwavering in a way that clenched around Arthur’s heart. “I never would. You know that.” The fine hand was warm in the middle of Arthur’s back, and the wide, blue eyes begged his trust, and so he allowed himself to be guided to the heavy, oaken door. He turned back one last time, catching a glimpse of the casket over Merlin’s shoulder. Trepidation sent a shiver up his spine, but Merlin was smiling sentimentally at him, a smile of such vulnerable love and amusement that he could not bear to see it fade, and so he bent forward and captured those lips, soft and tender beneath his own. “Be careful,” he breathed into the kiss. 

“Always,” Merlin promised. 

And then Arthur turned and walked out. Something he would regret a million times in the days ahead. 

That was the last time Arthur would see that open smile. Always in the future, there would be a wistful sadness curling the corner of the lips and hint of something broken behind once mischievous blue eyes.

But before even that time, Arthur’s nightmares would come slithering and crawling out of his dreams to devour his world.

-

#### 

*********

-

The evening Merlin finally did manage to open the casket, Arthur, and some of those closest to him at court, were finishing up an informal supper. Together, Arthur and his companions were seated around the circular table which Pendragon had arranged to be carried from the crumbling stronghold of the ancient kings. It had become somewhat of a tradition, gathering for these intimate meals in the North Solar off the main banquet hall. The room was generally set aside for Arthur’s more intimate meetings with his closest friends and allies. It provided a small refuge from the burden of public scrutiny. Those in attendance varied, depending upon prior commitments, duties, or patrols, and the list of those allowed was short, including only Arthur’s most trusted inner circle: Gaius, Gwen, Merlin, and those he liked to think of as the “Round Table Knights”. Occasionally, a visiting relative or dignitary might be invited to join them, but such events were rare as they tended to throw everyone a bit off stride. 

This evening, the king was joined by Gaius, Sir Lancelot, Sir Leon, Sir Gwaine and the latest knight to be invited into their midst, Sir Sagramor, a stocky, barrel-chested man with a twisted scar bisecting one cheek and a thicket of tangled, white-blond beard. No one was really certain where Sagramor hailed from or how he had come to arrive at Camelot. Asking him was an exercise in futility, for his story changed with each retelling. He was a man of few words, and even fewer answers. He had been born in Powys. Or was it Connacht? Or maybe Gotland? No, he had been dropped by an eagle flying south. Hatched from an egg. Crawled out from under a gooseberry bush, or whatever tale took his fancy at the time. He was high tempered, and fierce in battle, but blushingly shy with the ladies. He was also the only one who could drink Gwaine under the table, and the two of them had struck up a fast friendship. Arthur was still taking his measure of the man, but the others strongly vouched for him, and so he had been allowed to join their small circle. 

Gwen was seated at Arthur’s left while the seat to his right remained empty as it had for the past several days. The king’s mood throughout the meal had been foul, and he probably should have eaten alone in his chambers. He sat, brooding, nibbling on a thumbnail while the others conversed quietly with each other. The number of speculative looks flashing between Arthur and the vacant chair made it clear where their thoughts lay. 

It was Gwaine, as usual, who voiced was everyone was wondering, but no one else would be so impolitic as to ask. Flicking a chicken bone across the table in an unsuccessful attempt to get it to land in the empty the soup tureen, he nodded towards the vacant chair. “Not coming down tonight either?” 

“Apparently not,” Arthur muttered, expression dark. “I sent a runner, but it seems lately Merlin feels no need to answer my summons.”

“He certainly has taken a yearning to that musty, old relic,” Leon noted, tossing his own bit of bone at the serving dish. It bounced off the edge and skittered across the table to land in Lancelot’s lap. Leon blushed bright red, as Lancelot staidly retrieved the bone and pitched it into the bowl with perfect aim. 

Gaius glanced across at Arthur, expression pensive. “I don’t like this. That chest is not to be taken lightly.”

“I _know_ that!” Arthur spat, stung by the suggestion that this was somehow his fault. “Tell that to Merlin. He won’t listen to me.”

Sagramor snorted and tugged at his beard. “That’s nothing new.”

“Has he learned anything?” Gwen asked, seeking, as usual to smooth ruffled feathers. “I mean, he’s been studying it for some time now. Does he think it might be dangerous? Of course, if he thought it was dangerous he wouldn’t keep it here in Camelot, surely. So it must not be dangerous.” She glanced around the table, seeking confirmation of her observation. 

Arthur pressed fingertips to both temples, rubbing in small circles to chase away the pain of an impending headache. “He thinks it is a spell – a very powerful spell, and that it might be useful in protecting Camelot. And even if he can’t use it to protect Camelot, he feels he needs to understand it so he can control it. He says anything that powerful really shouldn’t be left lying about for someone to trip over.”

“But if he hasn’t figured it out after all this time, what are the chances someone else would accidentally unleash it?” asked Leon.

“I’m just telling you what he told me,” Arthur replied, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on the edge of his wine goblet. “All this magic stuff is a bit beyond me. Give me a sword and a shield, and I know what to do. Potions and spells?” He squared his shoulders, trying to convey certainty. “We must trust that Merlin knows what he is doing. Now, Lancelot,” and he turned both his attention and the direction of the conversation towards the young knight. “You promised to tell us the tale about the mysterious lady in green you met on your travels.”

Lancelot sat up straighter, flustered to find himself the center of the sudden scrutiny. “Ah, yes, Sire. Of course…” His reticent nature did not lend itself to bawdy tales of adventure, but with hearty encouragement from Gwaine and Sagramor, he soldiered on with his story, much to the amusement of all present. He was just explaining how it had come to pass that he had returned to Camelot riding a donkey, when the explosion startled everyone into silence.

The distant boom was loud and deep and seemingly too large to be confined merely within the walls of the castle. It gave the impression of rising from within the depths of the earth itself. Then came a rolling rumble like thunder, terrible and growling, that shook the very stones under their feet. Gwen screamed, hands flying to her mouth. Dust rained down on their heads as Arthur staggered to his feet, shielding Gwen from the falling debris with his body. 

Lancelot was glancing around, dark eyes wide with alarm. “That sounded like…”

“The East Tower,” finished Sagramor drawing his sword and heading towards the door.

“Merlin,” choked Arthur, and then they were all running.

-

#### 

*********

-

The passage to the tower was thick with a soupy, green smoke unlike any Arthur had before encountered. Billowing from the stairwell, it hung dense in the air, its stench that of a fetid swamp or carcasses rotting under a hot sun. It seemed to cling to their skin, slithering over every exposed surface and leaving an oily residue in its wake. 

Arthur waved everyone back, including several palace guards summoned by the blast, but as he made for the stairs, Lancelot checked him, barring the way with an arm across the opening. No words were spoken, but after a quick exchange of looks, Leon and Sagramor nodded to Arthur and took protective positions on either side of Gwen, urging her away from the swirling bank of fog. 

Lancelot, Gwaine and Arthur headed up the stairwell with swords drawn, Lancelot on point and Gwaine bringing up the rear. They were all coughing on the malodorous smoke, eyes watering, by the time they reached the entrance to Merlin’s chambers. The door had been blown open and hung half off its hinges, its heavy wood splintered and charred. 

The room itself was nearly destroyed, everything blackened as if by fire. Merlin’s furniture was overturned and burnt, his books consumed, the tapestry Arthur had admired on his last visit, a smoldering ruin. 

“Merlin?” Arthur called frantically as he made to step into the room, but a firm hold on his upper arm held him back. He tugged again, and then spun to confront Gwaine and found the usually insouciant knight regarding him with sympathetic eyes and a stubborn mouth. “Gwaine, let go,” he growled, but Gwaine did not release him, only tightened his grip. 

“Sire,” Lancelot soft voice drew his attention, and he turned to find the dark eyes filled with the same compassion he had seen in Gwaine. A hand pressed to his chest, asking him to wait. “Please, let me.” 

He knew what they thought. They thought Merlin was dead, and they sought to spare him. But they were wrong. They had to be wrong. “No,” he snarled, and yanked free of Gwaine, shoving his way passed Lancelot into the room. 

Everywhere was devastation and as Arthur searched, making his way carefully through the jumble of carbonized furnishings, he felt his stomach knot in despair, twisting inside him like snakes in his belly. “Merlin,” he ground out between clenched teeth, blinking wetness from his vision, and telling himself it was only the smoke. “Where are you?”

“Here,” Gwaine called softly, crouched over a crumpled heap of scorched, blue velvet.

Arthur stumbled across a room that suddenly felt leagues wide and fell to his knees beside them, breath catching on something that was almost, but not quite, a sob. Merlin lay curled on the floor, frail and shattered within the blackened, tattered fabric of his court robes. The sight reawaked old fears and for a moment, Arthur was trapped in past nightmares - visions of Merlin lashed to a pyre, crying out for salvation as the flames rose setting him ablaze and Arthur stood by, silent under his father’s oppressive gaze. He drew in a shuddering rasp before he clamped down on his emotions and turned to Gwaine. “We have to get him to Gaius. Take his feet.” As they moved to lift Merlin from the floor, Lancelot appeared at Arthur’s side.

“Sire, I found this,” he offered, expression uncertain as he held out the magical chest. It was unlatched and empty, its wood untouched by any trace of flames. Whatever mysteries it might have once held were now set free, and Arthur could only hope they would not prove the downfall of Camelot.

For an instant, he was overcome with fury and wanted nothing more than to pitch the wooden trunk out the nearest window. He hated the sight of the thing, certain it was the cause of this disaster. Nonetheless, it might be of some use to Gaius in helping treat Merlin, so he managed to reign in his passion. “Bring it,” he spat

-

#### 

*********

-

They laid Merlin carefully upon Gaius’s worktable, his limbs falling open in a vulnerable sprawl that left Arthur aching. Lancelot fetched a rolled blanket to slide under the warlock’s head, and Gwaine rushed off to fill a bucket with fresh water. Gwen was there too, hovering and offering to assist in any way necessary. Gaius took one look at Arthur’s chalk-white face and tenuous, thin-lipped control and sent them all out, aside from the king who sank down on a stool and caught Merlin’s cold fingers in his own.

Gaius tutted about, cutting away the blackened court robes and washing the heavy soot from Merlin’s skin. Arthur had expected blisters and burns beneath the grime, but Merlin’s skin was strangely unblemished; he looked perhaps even more pale than usual, but otherwise unaffected. 

“I don’t understand,” Arthur reflected, brushing ash-dusted hair back from Merlin’s forehead. “The room was destroyed. How can he be uninjured?”

Gaius paused from running his hands over Merlin’s body in search of impairment and nodded towards the chest which sat on a nearby table. “I see the box was also undamaged. Perhaps it was his magic that protected him.”

Arthur slammed a hand down on the table in frustration. “Protected him from what? What was _in_ that thing?”

Gaius patted Arthur lightly on the wrist, a gesture he never would have offered King Uther, but felt comfortable extending to his son. “I guess we will find out when Merlin wakes up.”

“He will be all right, won’t he, Gaius?” Arthur’s expression was apprehensive, but controlled, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst. 

“I can find nothing wrong with him. I expect the explosion may have knocked him unconscious, but otherwise he seems unharmed. Though there may be damage I can’t see. Something inside his skull. Only time can tell us that.” Having determined there were apparently no broken bones or lacerations upon Merlin’s body, Gaius carefully arranged the gangly limbs into a comfortable position. “Of course, we are also dealing with strong magic here. He may be bespelled in some way.”

“So what do we do?”

Gaius pulled a blanket up to Merlin’s chin. “We wait, sire.”

Arthur sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, that I will leave to you. I must reassure the court and see to the damages.”

Gaius nodded in agreement. “Certainly, sire. I will let you know if anything changes.”

“You do that,” Arthur instructed as he brushed a thumb lightly over one high-boned cheek. Merlin looked waxy-pale, closer to dead than alive, and the physician’s reassurance did little to untangle the knot of anxiety in the king’s chest. “Take care of him, Gaius.”

“As I have always endeavored to do,” Gaius reminded him with an awry smile. 

-

#### 

*********

-

But despite the physician’s optimism, Merlin did not awake that day, or the next, or the one after that. By the fifth day, Gaius’s expression had grown strained, and Pendragon was unraveling.

Hands clasped in his lap, the king sat beside the still figure on the cot and recounted the daily affairs of the court, discussing everything from the newest recruit to the rank of knighthood, to a petition by the blacksmith to expand the forge. Aside from the quiet sounds of the physician shuffling about his worktable, the room was quiet and peaceful, smelling strongly of herbs. Gaius had strung garlands of mint, basil, and rosemary from the rafters. _“To stimulate the mind,”_ he had explained.

Completing the rather lengthy monologue, Arthur glanced expectantly at Merlin where he lay tucked beneath a worn, wool blanket. Gently the king used a finger to brush an errant lock of dark hair off the young warlock’s forehead as he searched for some sign of awareness, a hitch in breathing, an eye roving beneath closed lids, the twitch of a finger. But there was nothing. If it had not been for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Arthur would have thought Merlin dead.

Surging to his feet in sudden anger, Arthur turned his wrath upon the hoary physician. “What’s wrong with him, Gaius? Why won’t he wake up?” 

Gaius shook his head, and sorted once more through the collection of bottled medicines and herb bundles laid on his table. “I don’t know. I’ve tried everything I can think of. I’ve heard of cases like this. They are usually accompanied by a severe blow to the head. When I examined Merlin, I saw no indication of such an injury…” His mouth flattened unhappily. “It is possible he suffered some form of affliction to his brain that left no outward sign. I had Ademar and that spindly boy of Merlin’s banging pots together all afternoon. I had hoped that the noise might help wake Merlin, but he didn’t so much as twitch. Gave _me_ a wretched headache however.” He tilted a glance towards Arthur, a small smile curling one corner of his mouth. It was a mere flicker of humor, but one that had been sorely missing the last few days. “At least it kept those two scallywags out of mischief for a while. Those boys have taken to each other like ducks to water. Reminds me of another pair of young scamps who were prone to getting themselves into all sorts of trouble.”

Arthur’s stance softened, acknowledging the sentiment behind the words. “I’d say one of them still is,” he noted, glancing worriedly towards Merlin.

“Oh, I dare say, they both still are,” corrected Gaius, lifting one of his numerous bottles of potions towards Arthur in a gesture of salutation before muttering under his breath, “Perhaps if I added black pepper to the tincture of periwinkle.”

“We have to do something,” Arthur insisted, pacing in frustration, his long strides carrying him from one end of the room to the other. “We can’t just let him…” He waved a hand towards the bed, “waste away like this!”

“I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do. He will wake when he is ready, if at all.” The healer picked up another bottle and squinted with a disapproving air at the small amount of powder remaining. “Almost out of Wolf’s Claw,” he sniffed, shaking the bottle as though hoping more of the dried moss would make an appearance. “I’ll have to send Ademar for some more.” Glancing around for his apprentice, he frowned distractedly. “Where has that boy gotten to now?”

“You sent him and Malachias to get some food from the kitchens,” Arthur reminded him, bracing his fists against the wood of the worktable and leaning forward, broad shoulders bowed under the burden of deep feeling. 

“Oh, right,” the physician nodded, recalling the two boys’ mournful expressions before he had sent them scampering on their way. “Seems all boys that age do is eat.” 

“What about you, Gaius? When was the last time you ate?”

Gaius waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about me, Sire. Gwen brought me something earlier.” He paused, expression puzzled. “At least I think that was today.”

“And Merlin?” Arthur crossed to stand over the cot in the corner, watching the fire light guild the waxen features. “He hasn’t eaten. How long, Gaius? I mean… how long can he stay like this?”

The healer sighed, his whole body slumping in defeat. Watching him, Arthur realized he was looking at an old man. Gaius had been the court physician Arthur’s whole life and seemed as integral part of the castle as the ramparts themselves. Now, suddenly he realized Gaius was just a man, as mortal as any other. It chilled him. The thought of loss was too close, too personal, couched in the jumbled shadows of the room, and in the soft whisper of Merlin’s breath.

“I’ve been able to get some broth into him,” Gaius assured, raising one shaky hand to strip back strands of dull, unwashed hair from his worn face. “That can keep him alive for now, but the longer he remains asleep, the less chance there is that he will ever awaken.” 

Arthur swung and struck a fist hard against the wall. “I never should have allowed that maggot-riddled, villainous box into this castle!”

“You couldn’t have known, Sire.”

“But I _did_ , Gaius. I knew it was evil. I could feel it!” Upon Pendragon’s orders, the chest in question had been wrapped in cloth and locked in the vaults beneath the castle. Still, Arthur was fairly certain he was doing little more than building a rampart after the enemy had invaded. He leaned heavily against the wall, braced by one arm. “I will never forgive myself.”

“Hush, Sire. You mustn’t blame yourself. You did no more than Merlin asked of you.”

Arthur turned, his eyes dark with misery. “I didn’t protect him Gaius. When he swore himself to my service, it became my duty to protect him, and I failed. I let my fondness for him overrule my reason.” 

Gaius moved closer, and put a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I dare say he has done the same with you on many an occasion.”

Pendragon snorted, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “Merlin may be the world’s most powerful sorcerer, but we both know he sometimes still needs protecting from himself.”

With a rueful glance towards the cot in the corner, Gaius concurred, “Indeed.”

  


#### 

*********

-

The thought that Merlin might never waken filled Arthur with a sick dread that ate at him like a wasting disease. He could think of nothing worse than losing Merlin to such blank silence. 

Then Merlin did awaken –

And Arthur came to realize how much worse things could be.

-

#### 

*********

-

“Sire!” Gaius’s assistant came skidding into the room, then drew up short under the weighty gaze of the Arthur’s advisors as they turned from their discussion with the king. Arthur straightened from where he had been studying the most recent information out of lands previously held by King Cendred. Cendred’s kingdom had fallen into turmoil since their king’s unexpected death a few years prior, and that growing unrest might well end up threatening Camelot. 

“Yes, Ademar? What is it?” Arthur drew in a sharp breath as he realized the information was likely about Merlin, but was it good or bad? “Did Gaius send you? Is it about the court sorcerer?”

The lad was practically vibrating with tension, jiggling from one foot to the other. Atop his head, a riot of copper curls seemed to echo his agitation, bouncing as he moved. “Yes, Sire. Gaius says to come as quickly as you can. Master Merlin is awake.”

Arthur managed not to run from the room in front of his advisors, though it was a near thing. No doubt, there would be whispers about his less than decorous departure later, but he had long ago learned to turn a deaf ear to the court gossip about his relationship with Merlin. Those who could not accept his decision to allow magic back into Camelot had left shortly after his ascension, either of their own accord or by royal decree. Those that stayed either accepted Merlin for who he was, or wisely kept silent. Whether that silence was purchased by loyalty to their king, instilled by fear of his wrath, or born of a desire to avoid being turned into some matter of small rodent made little difference to Pendragon.

Ademar led him towards the doors to Gaius’s chambers; though, in the last stretch, Arthur gave in and allowed his feet to move from swift strides to an outright jog, and thus arrived at the door a few paces ahead of the boy. However, as he reached for the handle, the youth was suddenly between him and the door. “Sire,” he sputtered, expression somewhere between contrite and terrified, his freckles standing out starkly upon his pale face. “Gaius said… He said you were to wait here till he can speak with you.”

Arthur gazed at the boy incredulously. “You did say Merlin is awake.”

“Yes, Sire. But -”

“Then stand aside.” Arthur did not actually wait to see if Ademar obeyed, but plowed on through, sweeping the boy aside without thought.

He strode into the room, heart leaping in his chest in a silent shout of joy as he caught sight of the familiar reedy figure standing across the room, with his back to Arthur, nimble fingers rifling through the books on one of Gaius’s shelves.

“Sire!” Gaius was between the two of them, wheeling at Arthur’s entrance, and there was an odd expression on his face which Arthur could not place. “Sire, you should have waited -”

But Arthur had no interest in what Gaius might have to say at that moment. His attention was focused solely upon the narrow shouldered man on the other side of the chambers, still dressed in a sweat stained nightshirt and nothing else.

“Merlin!”

And Merlin was pivoting then, alerted by his cry. As he turned, Arthur was struck by a chilling sense of wrongness. This man moved with a harmonious twist of bone, muscle, and sinew; a grace and balance that was nothing like Merlin. For an instant, Pendragon thought he might have been mistaken - that this dark haired, slender man was not his sorcerer at all, but some unknown stranger. But then he was facing Arthur, and there could be no mistaking the long, high boned face and unfortunate ears. It was Merlin.

And yet –

The harsh set of the mouth spoke not of easy humor and childlike awe, but of something cruel and acerbic, and the eyes –

The eyes were a soulless dead black, like pools of unctuous ink.

“Hello, Arthur.” Even the voice was wrong. Oh, he’d heard that tone of insolent disdain before, but always buoyed by an underlying affection. There was no affection here, just stinging contempt and a touch of malice. 

The warlock should have looked ridiculous with the frayed and grubby nightshirt hanging to his boney knees, the neckline rucked to the side, revealing pale skin and the ridge of a collarbone.

However, Arthur did not feel amused. Instead, he was gripped with a sudden foreboding as strong as any he had ever felt, which was wrong, because he was King of Camelot, and he didn’t panic.

Still, there was no denying the heavy dread that settled in his heart.

“Merlin?”

Merlin, who-didn’t-seem-at-all-like-Merlin, sneered, “Were you expecting someone else?”

Arthur’s eyes flickered to Gaius, the unspoken demand for information clear, _‘What in God’s teeth is this?’_

The healer’s barely perceptible nod said _‘keep quiet’_ as loudly as a shout. “Sire, I was just asking Merlin if he could recall anything that happened before the explosion or after.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” dismissed Merlin, with an airy wave of a hand. “I opened the box!” And he smiled.

There were things about Merlin that Arthur loved unconditionally. Nor did he find it particularly contradictory that many of those same aspects often caused him excessive chagrin. He loved Merlin’s long, elegant fingers and ridiculous ears; his gawping expression when befuddled, and his impertinent mouth (though he would never admit that); his silly, girlish sensitivity and awkward lack of finesse. Most of all, he loved Merlin’s smile – his easy, open smile that lit his whole face like an inner candle of delight. 

The smile that twisted Merlin’s lips at that moment reeked of wrongness. It sat upon his face like a thing foreign and invasive, like a parasite sucking the light from the room.

“And what was in the box, Merlin,” he asked softly, needing to know, yet very fearful of the answer.

“What was in the box? Why magic, Arthur!” And Merlin giggled, not the hiccupping giggle Arthur loved to tease him mercilessly about, but a scattered, unhinged kind of snigger that you might hear from someone who had lost their wits. “Powerful magic, just like I told you!”

Pendragon took a slow controlled breath in through his nose, keeping his voice level and unaffected. “And what did that powerful magic do?” 

Merlin spread his arms. “It made me strong, so strong. Nothing can stand against me now.” The light shining from the window behind him turned the night shirt translucent. Merlin had a naturally slender build, but in the fall of fabric, Arthur could see how the wizard’s body had wasted after days without solid food. He looked fragile, breakable, but when it came to Merlin, Arthur had learned appearances deceived. 

“You’ve always been strong,” he said neutrally, feeling like he was treading cautiously through a bog, the ground beneath him uncertain and shifting. 

“Yes…” Merlin hissed, grinned at him and sliding closer, his movements a stealthy sideways glide that made Arthur think of a predator sizing up its prey, “But before I was always afraid of what I might do. I’ve been holding myself back, you know, out of deference for _you_. Denying myself my true power. I’m not afraid anymore…” He cocked his head at Arthur, expression thoughtful, though his blank eyes offered no glimmer of emotion. “But maybe _you_ should be.”

Arthur swallowed hard, but allowed none of his anxiety to color his words or alter his stance. “What do you mean?”

“Well, think about it, Arthur.” Merlin crooned, addressing him as though he were a particularly stupid child. “You fancy yourself King of Camelot… perhaps one day King of all Albion, but you only rule due to _my_ indulgence.” Merlin pressed a hand to his own chest, calling Arthur’s attention to his importance. “I helped put you on the throne, and _I_ am the one who keeps you there.” He paused for a moment, those inky eyes fixed on Arthur like a hawk contemplating a rabbit, and a slow smile stretched his lips obscenely. “I could easily dispose you if I chose, Arthur Pendragon.”

Gaius hissed in a breath. “Merlin!”

Arthur’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “You are speaking treason.”

“Treason or truth, My King. I am more powerful that you and all your titles could ever be. I could destroy you with…” he snapped his fingers, “… a mere thought.”

This whole conversation seemed a thing unreal, Arthur’s worst nightmares given life. He struggled to keep his breathing even as he faced this stranger wearing his lover’s face. “Then why haven’t you?” 

Merlin flicked a hand dismissively. “I don’t know. Sentimentality maybe? You do make a pretty figurehead.”

 _A figurehead?_ For the first time, Arthur let some of his consternation leak through. “Merlin, I am High King of Camelot, and you would do well to remember it!”

“For the moment, yes, but I am anticipating a few changes in the near future.” Merlin’s tone was light and nonchalant, as though they were discussing the price of cabbages, not sedition. “However, at the moment I am famished. Gaius informs me that my tower chamber is somewhat uninhabitable at the moment, so I will be taking yours of course, as they are the only ones truly suitable.”

“What?”

“I expect someone to bring me something to eat immediately.” He turned to address Gaius, wagging a finger as though scolding a child. “Something good, not that rubbish gruel you insist on giving anyone who’s been sick.” He sighed and tugged at the hem of his nightshirt. “And I will need new clothing, obviously. Apparently mine were burnt. Something appropriately extravagant, of course.” He ran his hands down his body as he envisioned luxurious finery. “A tunic of Imperial purple I think. And black silken robes with silver embroidery. Though for now I will have to make do with your ceremonial robes, Arthur. We are of similar height, though I fear you are a bit wide in the shoulders.”

Arthur spread his hands, at a loss. “You can’t just…”

“That’s just it.” Merlin informed him brightly, a warning in the tilt of his head. “I can. I can do anything I want, and no one can stop me. Not even you, dear Arthur. So I suggest you make every effort to keep me happy, or the consequences could be…” He paused for a moment, seeming to consider. “Hmm… very unfortunate.” Striding towards the door to Gaius’s workshop, he tossed over his shoulder some final demands. “Of course I will want a clothier to attend me as soon as possible, so arrange to send fitters to your chamber. Oh…” he turned with a flash of a smile, taunting, “… _my_ chambers now.”

“Merlin,” Arthur cautioned, feeling as though he had stumbled into the middle of some catastrophic event, and still had not managed to find his feet. “You can’t go roaming the halls in your night clothes.” Under the circumstances, the potential impropriety of Merlin’s attire was a ridiculously frivolous thing to be concerned with, but it seemed the only thing Arthur was prepared to wrap his mind around at that moment.

Merlin laughed, and the sound crawled over Arthur’s skin like millions of icy legged spiders. “Arthur. Arthur. Arthur,” he lamented. “You really are a bit beef-witted aren’t you? It’s amazing you have managed to rule at all. Of course, that is mostly due to me, I now realize. I told you, I can do anything I want! And if anyone complains…” he turned towards the corner where Gaius’s apprentice was clutching a basket of potions he was meant to deliver and trying his best to appear inconspicuous. “I’ll just…” Merlin flicked a hand, and blaze of blue light arched from his fingertips to engulf the boy, who screamed in terror. “…make them disappear!” The light flared in a blinding flash, then vanished, along with Ademar. The basket fell to the floor with a thump and rattle of bottles. 

“Ademar!” cried Gaius in distress, “No!”

Arthur took two quick strides towards the warlock. “Merlin!” 

Gaius lifted a hand in warning, “Sire!”

“Ah, ah,” admonished Merlin, raising a cautionary finger. The expression on his face froze Arthur in his tracks. “Don’t push me, Pendragon. That could easily have been you.”

“But why?” Arthur demanded, shaking with emotion, fists clenched in impotent rage. “He was just a boy! He was no threat to you!”

“No. He was no threat at all. None of you are. He was merely a lesson. Those foolish ideas you are entertaining, about having me arrested and thrown in the dungeons? Not going to work. I won’t submit to you anymore, Pendragon. I have come into my full power, and I will destroy anyone who tries to thwart me.” His malicious smile was a like a seal on a dark promise. “And I won’t use a simple vanishing spell either. I will tear them apart bit by bit, and their screams will echo throughout the castle.” He threw back his head and laughed; it was a terrible sound. “I am rather hoping someone will make a foolish move against me. I’ve never actually tried to pull someone’s entrails out through their mouth and am quite looking forward to the attempt!” Then with a final waggle of fingers in their direction, he was gone.

Arthur found himself blinking at the door through which Merlin had disappeared, breath coming in heavy pants as though he had just finished a ferocious battle while decked out in chain mail and armor. For a moment, his mind was a stuttering void of blankness, but he retained enough presence to react as Gaius began to sag towards the floor. Three swift strides carried him to the old physician’s side and he caught Gaius by an elbow and guided him into a chair.

“What the hell was that!” he barked. 

“I don’t…” Gaius shook his head, looking lost. “A spell. Possession. He must be possessed…” He looked up at Arthur, expression broken. “I should have sent the boy away! I knew Merlin was…” Shoulders slumped in defeat. “I should have sent him away. Poor Ademar. He didn’t deserve that. It’s my fault.”

The disappearance of Ademar was a sore thing; however, Arthur knew the boy’s loss might be but the first skirmish in a much larger battle they must soon face. His hand tightened on the healer’s shoulder. “Gaius. I need to know. Can we fix this? Is Merlin…? Is that still Merlin? Can we get him back, or… is he gone?” His jaw clenched. Gaius needed to understand the importance of what Pendragon was asking – and of what he was not saying. Would he be forced to destroy the person he loved more than anyone in order to save the kingdom that meant more to him than anything. “I need to know what options I have!”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Gaius’s voice was thin, distracted, he seemed frail under Arthur’s hand. “Does it really matter? We can’t fight him. He’s too powerful.” 

“There has to be a way, something we can do to…” 

_Free him?_

_Stop him?_

_Annihilate him?_

What would he be required to do? And at what cost? Arthur fought back the lump of despair that rose in his throat. Needing to embolden himself as much as Gaius, he completed his thought with cocksure confidence. “…cure him.” 

He had to believe he could still help. That he could somehow save Merlin. That his love was still reachable behind those cold, black eyes and hateful laugh. The thought of anything else filled him with such anguish that the mere act of breathing became a trial. 

“Gaius, think. He must have a weakness. You know his magic better than any of us, even me. There has to be a way to stop him.” He bit down on his lower lip hard, before continuing. “I know there was a time you used to practice magic… in service to my father.” He gazed at the physician, half apologetic, half pleading. “I have never asked that of you. Never asked you to break that oath.” 

They both knew why. 

Merlin.

Anything Gaius could have offered would have paled in comparison to what Merlin could do.

But they no longer had that luxury.

Gaius sighed. “I understand, Sire. I will need time to consult my books, see what I can learn.”

Arthur nodded and gaze the shoulder a squeeze. “Of course. I will do what I can to distract… Merlin.” Even saying the name was painful. “You keep Malachias here to help you.” Their eyes met, and the unspoken was clear. _‘And away from Merlin.’_

“Yes, Sire.”

Arthur straightened and made for the door. He paused at the threshold, and shared a weighty glance with the old man. “I don’t need to tell you to hurry, do I? We may not have much time.”

“I will do my best, Your Grace.”

“Let us hope that will be enough. If not, I fear Camelot may fall.”

-

#### 

*********

-

“If he is a danger, we must do something.”

“And what would you suggest? You’ve seen what he can do. If we become a threat, he will just vanish us like the boy. Or worse. You do remember what he did to that kelpie creature that tried to drown Arthur? I personally don’t want to end up with my insides spread all over the countryside.”

“But to do nothing is cowardice, surely?”

“Is it? Seems like a wise decision to me. I vote for keeping our heads down and our horses saddled.” 

“You can’t mean that!”

Bracing his hands upon a dusty table in a small antechamber of the Great Library, King Arthur let his head drop forward and hang, feeling as though it weighed as much as a millstone. The room smelled of musty, yellowed paper and mice-infested corners. The odor of melted wax lay heavy in the air. They had chosen this quiet vestibule in hopes they would remain undetected, and only a few knew of their whereabouts. Letting the strained exchange between Sir Gwaine and Sir Lancelot wash over him, Arthur took a moment to sweep the scattered debris of the previous sleepless, stressful night from the recesses of his mind. He needed to be clear headed for this. 

The weak, grey, morning light filtering through the deep set casement windows did little to illuminate the room. A stinging rain lashed at the glass, leaking in around the mullioned panes and dripping onto the floor. A strong gust blew one of the windows open, and the candles on the table sputtered out. Rain spattered the floor, and Pendragon shivered in the biting draft. 

“Enough!” he snapped, holding up a quelling hand. “This avails us nothing.”

Lancelot hurried to close the window. “But surely we should make some effort…” he tossed over his shoulder as he fought with the stubborn latch. He finally managing to fasten it shut, getting drenched while doing so.

“We don’t know what we are dealing with yet,” Arthur told him. “It is unwise to go into battle without knowing the lay of the land.”

“Ah, see!” Gwaine gloated. “Like I said. We keep to the shadows, and prepare to beat a hasty retreat if needed.”

“Nor,” added Arthur, giving Gwaine a pointed look, “are we going to hide behind the servants’ skirts.”

Gwaine twitched mischievous eyebrows. “Can we hide under their skirts then?”

“You… You…” Lancelot sputtered in dismay, waggling a censuring finger at his fellow knight. “You are…”

“Sire?”

The king swallowed back a rather sharp reprimand and turned, instead, to confront the guard who had just burst into the room. The man’s face was bloodless, his eyes wide with the kind of stunned expression of a child who has just been slapped and has not decided yet whether to launch into screaming hysteria or not. His cape was dripping water onto the floor in an ever expanding puddle beneath his feet.

Arthur frowned. “Yes? What is it?” 

“Sire.” The man repeated, seeming to search for something to say. “Sire,” he stuttered a third time while Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Yes? What? Out with it, man!” Perhaps his tone was a bit more scathing than necessary, but he was tired and stretched thin. It was important he and his knights work out what to do about Merlin before the situation worsened.

“I’ve been looking everywhere. The Library was all they said. They didn’t tell me you’d be skulking in the dark, did they? No. No, they didn’t.”

Arthur drew in a slow breath; by the time he let it out, equally slowly, he felt he could reply without blood being shed. “Who said?”

“The physician. Aye. He sent me. He said… He said you should come.”

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Arthur’s stomach like a heavy stone. “Gaius sent you? What is it?”

The guard swallowed thickly. “You should come and see for yourself. Yes. See for yourself, Sire.”

The uneasy feeling grew worse. Had it been good news, Gaius would likely have come himself and not sent this rather inept guard. “Very well. We will come. Lead the way.” Arthur swept out an arm, gathering the two knights to him as he strode after the guard. 

-

#### 

*********

-

They hurried down corridors gone strangely silent and deserted. The usual industrious bustle of the castle was reduced to a few skitterish servants scurrying out of the way and shadowy figures peering around corners and through the meager cracks of barely-open doors. It was as though a pall had settled over the castle, and Arthur found the oppressive atmosphere deeply unsettling. Camelot should never be this quiet – this cowed. He could only conclude the sudden change had something to do with Merlin, as much as he would have liked to believe otherwise.

The upper cloister was facing the full brunt of the deluge, the sleeted rain blowing between the columns in punishing sheets. As they hurried along the slick walkway, they kept close to the inner wall, their cloaks raised to shield against of the worst of the weather. Turning a corner, Arthur spotted two guards ahead, loitering in the passageway, far from any assigned sentry post. 

“Ho! You there!” he shouted from beneath the shelter of his sodden cloak. His intent was to berate them for dawdling about when he had given specific orders for the guards to be on high alert. They did not respond, and he was working up a fair amount of royal pique when his well-honed instinct for trouble began to quiver. The guards were too still, their stances awkward and unnatural, and they made no effort to avoid the frigid flurry of rain falling around them. 

As Pendragon and his men drew closer, the reason became clear. The king had been mistaken. The figures were not guards at all, but statues, perfect likenesses carved of ash grey stone - one with an expression of surprise upon his face, the other with an arm thrown up, as though to ward off a blow. Water trickled over the deftly chiseled curves of facial features and dripped from the edges of flat planes of armor.

“Where the devil did these…?” Arthur started to inquire, puzzled as to how the statuary had ended up in the portico, then he got a closer look at the figures and froze. A chill skittered down his spine as he realized he had been in error, yet again. These were no ornamental sculptures. Their features were unmistakable. With rising horror, he recognized them as the two guards he sent to shadow Merlin just that very morning. 

“What happened here?” Despite the churning dread in his stomach, Arthur was pleased to note that his voice held steady. It would not do to let the guard guess his level of agitation. 

“It was the court sorcerer. Yes it was, Your Majesty.” 

Arthur blanched. Any hope he had held, that the whole predicament with Merlin had been temporary and would soon pass, evaporated in light of the evidence staring him in the face. These were his men. His guards. Turned into lifeless stone. Their lives forfeit. The lives of their wives and children shattered. 

By Merlin’s hand.

By magic.

“He turned them into stone. Just like that!” The guard demonstrated with a wave of his hand. “And not just these poor wretches, Sire! Oh no. Not just these. Others too! Dozens of them. Some of the servants, including Head Cook!” Now that he had been given permission to speak, the guard could not seem to stop babbling like an agitated child. “Said the meal wasn’t to his liking. Not to his liking! Can you imagine? Turned to stone because the pottage had gone cold and too much salt in the soup! It’s got folks spooked, Sire. The sorcerer… Well, he’s gone mad, hasn’t he?”

Arthur turned on the guard then, his expression censuring. “You best watch your tongue. The spreading of such rumors will not be tolerated. The court sorcerer is not mad. He is…” Arthur exchanged a swift glance with Gwaine and Lancelot. “He has taken ill.”

The guard expression twitched, and it was obvious he had his doubts about the king’s declaration. However, he was also prudent enough to keep his opinions to himself. With a bob of his head, the man dutifully replied, “Yes, Sire. Of course, Sire. Taken ill, he has.”

Arthur nodded in approval, accepting the man’s show of obeisance. He then indicated the two unfortunate guards. “Is this what Gaius wished me to see?”

The guard looked momentarily nonplused, as though he was uncertain of what he should say. “No, Your Majesty. I can see why you might think… I mean, folks turning into stone is certainly dire enough, yes, but it’s not why he sent for you. The sorcerer’s… sickness… Well, it has caused other problems, you see. You’ll understand better when you get a look with your own eyes.”

Arthur fought down a swell of dismay. _Other problems?_ If having men ensconced into stone was not serious enough to prompt Gaius to send for him, then what sorts of _‘other problems’_ could they possibly be facing? The situation seemed to be slipping his control, and if he didn’t manage to rein things in soon, he might well have complete panic on his hands. 

“Perhaps it would be best if we talk to Gaius,” Sir Lancelot suggested, shoulders hunched against the weather.

Once again, Arthur was struck with how calm and reasonable his most steadfast knight managed to sound no matter how unusual the situation in which they found themselves. Arthur’s composure was often hard won, and he could not help but envy Lancelot his unruffled demeanor. It would be easy to assume that the knight simply had no deep emotions, and that his characteristic equanimity merely evinced a lack of passion. However, Arthur knew well the true depths of Lancelot’s spirit. He had seen it shine forth when his friend gazed upon Guinevere, and had watched it mirrored in her own brown eyes. It was fortuitous for all of them that Lancelot was adept at hiding his emotions. It would not do for the court to begin questioning Guinevere’s fidelity. A king’s own indiscretions might be overlooked, but never the queen’s. 

“This way,” the guard indicated, with a sweep of his arm. “He is in the Wardrobe.”

“The Wardrobe?” Arthur fell into step with the guard. “What is he doing in the Wardrobe?” The Wardrobe was mainly a storage room for stockpiled clothing and personal items belonging to members of the royal household. It was crowded with trunks, wardrobes, chests, rolled tapestries and stored furniture. 

“He felt it would allow for more privacy,” the man replied, expression somewhat apprehensive. “For those afflicted, you know. Poor souls.”

 _Afflicted?_ Arthur traded troubled glances with Lancelot and Gwaine. Without a word exchanged, all three increased their pace.

-

#### 

*********

-

“Sire!” Sir Leon turned quickly from where he and Gaius had been conversing and hurried towards Pendragon and the knights. The lines of stress across his broad forehead and around his eyes and mouth eased a bit at the sight of them. 

“Leon,” Arthur acknowledged with a nod while shaking out his cloak. Beside him, Lancelot was meticulously squeezing excess rain from his clothing while water ran in rivulets from the locks of raven hair plastered to his skull. Gwaine, for his part, engaged in a full body shimmy, not unlike like a wet dog. That he managed to spatter Arthur in the process seemed to delight him. The guard who had accompanied them was apparently content to simply drip on the floor.

Raising his voice to be heard over the howling and wailing echoing throughout the chamber, Arthur asked, “By all that is holy, what is going on in here?”

The clamor was overwhelming, and the room smelled of urine and fear. The Wardrobe was crowded with guards, knights, a courtier or two, and a smattering of servants, all apparently under Gaius’s authority. The servants seemed to be attending to the others, who were clearly in distress. Arthur saw one guard convulsing on a table. Another was trying to crawl under a heavy, wooden cupboard. Sir Gautier, one of the older, veteran knights whom Arthur had inherited after his father’s passing, was huddled in the corner with his arms over his head. His feet scrabbled uselessly against the floor as he screamed and fought to force himself through the stone wall. Malachias wrestled with a guard on the floor, trying to prevent the man from gouging out his own eyes. 

As the king regarded the scene in horror, a nobleman crawled towards him on all fours, rubbed against his leg while whining piteously, then rolled over on his back to expose his belly. Arthur recognized him as Lord Umberto, and longtime ally of his father and frequent visitor to the castle. 

“It was Merlin,” Leon explained, looking ill at ease. “He did something to them. Gaius isn’t certain what. Some sort of enchantment.” He surreptitiously nudged aside Umberto, who was trying to lick Arthur’s boot. 

“All of them?” Arthur surveyed the chaos, feeling as though the floor had vanished from beneath his feet. He was in free fall, with no way of knowing where or when he would land.

“Not all at once, no. And not the servants. He seems to have left most of them alone.” Leon shook a foot, trying to dislodge the noble who was now growling, and chewing on his ankle. 

“But why?” asked Lancelot, expression aghast. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Sir Leon shrugged. “We think some of them tried to step in and stop him in some way.” He glanced at Arthur. “I know you gave orders he be left alone, but that goes against their training.” 

Arthur gritted his teeth and waved a frustrated hand at the stricken men. “I was trying to prevent this!”

“I know.” Leon glanced down, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I am not laying blame, only pointing out that asking them to overcome the discipline you have instilled in them, to protect Camelot and her people at all costs, is no simple task.”

“Where are Elyan and Percival?” Arthur inquired tightly, noting the absence of the last of his most trusted inner circle.

“They are following Merlin, keeping him under guard.” At Arthur’s look of alarm, he quickly reassured, “Don’t worry. They are remaining at a distance, but we felt someone should keep an eye on his whereabouts.”

“And Sagramor? Is he still with the Queen?”

At this, the guard roused from his silent contemplation of the floor, apparently pleased to be able to share inside knowledge. “As you ordered, Sire, keeping her company in the Bower. Though he seems the worse for it, I dare say. Surrounded as he is by that gaggle of geese.” His eyes went comically round as he realized the import of his words. “Not the queen, mind you,” he hastened to clarify. “She’s no goose! No, a right fine woman she is. But those court ladies…” He shook his head. “Not a one of them have the sense the gods gave a pigeon egg. They have the poor man holding their skeins, I believe. And the queen? Well she is none too pleased to be kept out of all this and has been saying as much all morning.”

He jerked to a halt, finally seeming to run out of words and glanced around to find himself the center of bemused attention. 

“I’m sure,” Arthur replied, his mouth quirking slightly, at the thought of Guinevere’s reaction to being cooped up in the Bower. He was glad it was Sagramor who was having to deal with her displeasure and not himself.

Gaius had approached and was waiting to be granted Arthur’s attention. His cragged face was drawn, sagging with exhaustion, his grey eyes haunted.

“Majesty,” he intoned with a slight bow as the king turned to him. 

“What happened to these men, Gaius?”

The physician sighed unhappily. “I believe they are enchanted. Some have lost all reason and have reverted to an almost infantile state. Lord Umberto here,” he nudged the whimpering courtier, “seems to think he is a dog. Many of them are experiencing some sort of altered state of mind. They appear to be plagued by visions of things that do not exist.” He glanced around the room, at men cowering and shrieking, babbling and pointing at the empty air. “Quite disturbing things, judging from their reactions.”

Arthur swallowed hard, and his voice was rough when he spoke to the healer. “Can you help them?”

At this Gaius looked truly distressed, practically wringing his hands. “After you lifted the ban on magic, I considered reviving my previous life, trying to polish up those old skills, but I am well past my prime, and with Merlin as the court sorcerer, I never considered there would be a need for my much more limited magic. Anything I could do, Merlin could do a thousand times more effectively.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve been looking through my books on the Old Religion, but I don’t know how to counter Merlin’s magic. Even if I knew the spells, this is beyond my abilities.” He gestured at those beset. “I have given some of them a sleeping draught that should calm their nerves, but most of them are too agitated to take it. I do not know how to undo this. I do not know how to stop Merlin.” 

His shoulders slumped and his head dropped forward, his words sinking to a mere murmur. “I have failed you, Your Grace.” And with that, he begins to lower himself to the floor with as much decorum as elderly joint and muscle will allow. 

“No!” Arthur protested in consternation, reaching out to grasp the physician by his elbow. “No more of that! Gaius, I have known you my whole life. You have always treated me with respect and kindness. You will not kneel to me, not like this. We will find a way to remedy the situation. I promise.” 

He glanced quickly at young Malachias, who having succeeded in securing the guard set on blinding himself, was now hovering, wide eyed, at Gaius’s shoulder. “Help him to a chair and get him a cup of watered wine.” As the youth hurried to get the wine, Arthur placed a hand upon Gaius’s shoulder and chided him gently. “You must rest. You are pushing yourself too hard. Do not think I fail to see the guilt that rides you. This is not your fault. If blame lies anywhere, it is with me.” He gave a quick squeeze of the shoulder and stepped back, relinquishing Gaius to Malachias's care as the youth returned and slipped an arm around the physician’s waist. “Now,” Arthur nodded towards a nearby chair, “take your ease. These men will have need of your care and you will do them no good if you are abed yourself.”

Gaius was watching him with a mixed expression of awe and deep pride. His bow was low and heartfelt, offered in genuine veneration for his king. “Yes, Majesty. By your will.”

Arthur offered a swift, almost sheepish smile, momentarily nonplused at the changing roles of their lives, then nodded at Malachias, who steered the elderly physician away. 

“You,” Arthur turned to address the guard who originally had come to fetch them. “Gather some men. Go down to the dungeons and clean out the cells. I want a thick layer of fresh straw and comfortable pallets on the floor.” 

“Yes, Sire. Fresh straw and pallets. It will be done, Sire.”

As the guard scurried off, Leon gave him a questioning look. “The dungeons?”

“We can tend to these men there. They will be less a danger to themselves and others if we can keep them contained.”

Gwaine flashed a quick grin, looking impressed. It was a rare enough expression from him. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have them far enough away from the rest of the castle that no one can hear them yowling and carrying on so. Gets under your skin after a while. ” He hunched his shoulders and shivered for emphasis. “Makes a man twitchy.” 

Arthur’s reply was tart. “I intend to give them the best care.”

“Of course you do! And the dungeons are just the place for it!”

Lancelot glanced at Gwaine with an expression that was part censure, part charitable affection, before turning back to Arthur. “We know you will do all you can for them, Sire.”

“Of course,” Gwaine agreed enthusiastically, adding a droll, “I’m just pointing out that the dungeons might be exactly where a few of them should spend some time.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the facetious knight, knowing there was more to the comment than an off-the-cuff observation. “Gwaine?” The underlying demand was clear. Whatever it was Gwaine was trying to imply in with his sardonic rejoinder, Arthur would know of it. 

Gwaine tried for wide-eyed innocence, but Arthur was not buying. His eyebrows crept upward, punctuating his directive. 

Gwaine sighed, much put upon. “All right, there. Don’t get your smalls in a twist. It’s just a thought.” 

Arthur thought it was a very good thing he’d had a few years of exposure to Merlin’s brand of insolence before encountering Gwaine. Otherwise, he would likely have had the man drawn and quartered by now.

Gwaine glanced around the room studying those afflicted. Reaching up to clasp Sir Leon by the shoulder, he asked in low tones, “You said Merlin enchanted some of those who tried to stop him, but were some of these ah… unfortunate souls targeted specifically?”

Leon looked surprised and a bit taken aback. “Why do you ask that?”

Gwaine gave a cheeky lift of his shoulders, as if to shrug off the question. “Were they?”

Arthur and Lancelot were both watching the exchange closely, Arthur with growing impatience and Lancelot with a dawning dismay.

“We have some reports from witnesses that there were some people deliberately singled out, yes.” Leon planted his hands on his hips and eyed Gwaine curiously. “Now, I want to know how you knew that.”

Instead of answering, Gwaine hummed thoughtfully to himself and turned to Lancelot who was looking decidedly ill. “Do you see it?”

Lancelot nodded, mouth tight. “Yes. Some of them, yes.” His eyes, when they flickered to Gwaine were full of despair. “That means he is enough himself to find them… to do this. Some of this _is_ his choice.”

Gwaine punched Lancelot hard in the upper arm. “Just like you, all gloom and doom. It also means he is still in there somewhere. We just have to help him find his way back!”

Arthur was looking increasingly annoyed. Arms crossed, he fixed them both with a stern look. “Would either of you mind telling your king what is going on?”

Gwaine spared him a sideways flick of his attention. “You’re not going to like it.”

“And you’re not going to like what I will do to you if you do not explain. Now!”

Gwaine heaved a great breath and seems to acquiesce, turning to Lancelot. “Guess you had better tell him.”

“ _I_ had better tell him?”

“You’re better at this kind of stuff. He won’t get as hissy with you.”

Lancelot opened his mouth as though to protest further, then apparently decided it was a battle he would not win and turned instead to address Arthur. “Sire. You see… before… when Merlin was not your court sorcerer but merely your manservant…” He paused, and glanced towards Gwaine for support before soldiering onward. “There were those who did not treat him with due respect. Of course, being that he was a servant at the time, one would not expect that he be shown the courtesy a counselor of the court should receive.” He gazed at Arthur, his brown eyes earnest. “Still, every man has the right to just treatment, regardless of his station. You have said so yourself.” 

“By the saints,” Gwaine griped, rolling his eyes. “We’ll all be greybeards by the time you’ve finished! Look…” He grasped Arthur’s arm and pointed to one of the guards crouching in a corner. “That fellow there and some of his sheep-biting cronies used to get a thrill out of tripping Merlin in the hallways, knocking things out of his hands, shoving him into the walls, sending him headfirst into the mud. All _accidents_ , mind you. And this maggot-egg…” he indicated a knight half draped in a chair, “ordered Merlin around like a dog. He used to beat his squire, and when Merlin tried to take up for the boy, Sir Toad-face…”

“Sir Giroud,” corrected Lancelot, as always, a stickler for accuracy.

“Like I said, Sir Toad-face told Merlin he’d leave the boy be, as long as Merlin did the boy’s chores himself. Merlin was doing all his fetch and carry as well as yours until Leon put a stop to it. And his Lordship here?” Gwaine kicked lightly at the nobleman who was still trying to wrap himself around Arthur’s ankles. “He has a liking for young men, especially those who aren’t in a position to say no. He tried to force Merlin into his bed. It got pretty messy, till Merlin broke down and told me. We took care of it.”

Throughout Gwaine’s disclosure, Arthur’s features had gone still, his lips white from being pressed tight to keep his fury from escaping. His displeasure was clear in the hard gleam of his eyes and in every stiff line of his body. However, this last revelation was too much to bear in silence. “And why,” he spit, giving voice to his frustration, “didn’t anyone think to tell me about this? My manservant was being abused and no one thought to mention it?”

The three knights communicated silent chagrin. 

“It would have been the word of a servant against knights and nobles,” Leon reminded him gently. 

“Would you have listened?” added Gwaine.

Arthur reeled back as though struck. “Of course I would have listened!” he bristled, feeling wounded. How dare they question his integrity! How could they doubt him so? Had he not fought to bring justice to all his people? 

“Maybe,” noted Gwaine, “but would you have done anything about it?”

“How can you ask that?” This time the hurt bled into his words. “Do you think so little of me?”

Leon stiffened and cleared his throat. “None of us doubt you, Your Grace,” he declared, glaring at Gwaine in warning. “Of course we know you would have done what you could to help.”

“Ah hell…” Gwaine grimaced, expression twisting with something that might be akin to guilt. “I didn’t mean you wouldn’t try to help, just that you might not have been able to do much about it.” He exchanged a knowing look with Lancelot, brimming with shared perception. “When Lance here and I stumbled across that boarder between the common rabble and the nobility, you did what you could to support us, but we still ended up high-tailing it out of Camelot like the hounds were on our heels. And Merlin was just a servant. Your father would have seen him hanged before he’d believe his word against someone like Umberto.”

“He’s right,” Lancelot said, treading softly, obviously troubled that they had upset Arthur. “We know you would have done all you could, but Merlin didn’t want to create further conflict between you and your father.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Besides, as it turns out, Merlin was quite capable of taking care of himself if the situation became too intolerable.”

“And apparently he isn’t above a little revenge, “Gwaine added, glancing meaningfully around the room.

For a moment, Arthur looked disconcerted by the significance of this, but then his expression brightened and he slapped Lancelot on the back. “Then you were right! If he specifically chose these men to enchant, then that means Merlin is still Merlin, on some level. He hasn’t been completely destroyed by whatever is in that fiendish box!”

Lancelot nodded, but didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic. “Yes, but it also means he has been changed. Our Merlin would never torment someone so, even to his own benefit and certainly not in revenge.”

“He’s killed before,” Gwaine noted.

“To protect those he cares for,” Leon felt compelled to elaborate, “or in service of Arthur and Camelot, not to satisfy a sense of vengeance!”

Gwaine seemed unconvinced. “That’s not what he says about what happened with Nimueh.”

“And it still troubles him,” Arthur replied, remembering nights spent soothing a restless Merlin when he had been driven from sleep by dark memories and guilt. And Nimueh was not the only open, unhealed wound to Merlin’s soul. There were other betrayals that pierced even more deeply, other secrets that Arthur alone knew. If not for the burden of his own missteps, he might not have found the understanding necessary to offer Merlin absolution, for some of the warlock’s past actions had been grievous indeed. Despite that, the deliberate malice Arthur sensed in these enchantments was unlike anything Merlin had previously evinced.

“Lancelot’s is right,” Arthur continued, voice soft and troubled. “This isn’t like Merlin.”

“So what does it mean?” Leon let his gaze travel around the room and the moaning, cowering victims of Merlin’s magic. “What do we do?”

Arthur truly did not know, and it bothered him, this uncertainly. His momentary elation upon realizing Merlin was still in possession of some sense of self was beginning to falter in light of the deeper implications of his sorcerer’s current actions. However, he had to remain determined and confident for all their sakes; to do otherwise might well abet their downfall. “There must be a way to get our Merlin back. We just have to figure out how.” 

-

#### 

*********

-

Arthur hurried along the corridor towards the Armory, attempting to tug into place the ill-fitting tunic and wolf skin mantle which he had borrowed from Lord Ector. His own vestments, along with the rest of his personal possessions, had been claimed by Merlin when he took over the Royal Chambers. Sir Elyan and Sir Borin trailed in Arthur’s wake, the tramp of their boots echoing in the narrow confines of the passageway. 

Attending council meetings was far from Arthur’s favorite duty as king. He generally considered them a tedious necessity which, upon rare occasion, proved somewhat fruitful. Admittedly, the meetings had become quite a bit more entertaining once Merlin had been appointed court sorcerer. Merlin’s refusal to adhere to protocol, blundering honesty, and clever wit lent the gatherings a refreshing vivacity. Unfortunately, Merlin detested council meetings even more than Arthur and begged off, or simply arranged to be unavailable, as often as possible. 

This particular meeting, however, was one to which Arthur had no intention of inviting the wizard. Runners had been sent throughout the castle to inform his royal advisers of the clandestine gathering in the Castle Armory. Merlin, he had been assured, was being kept busy by the tailor and a bevy of seamstresses who were fashioning new garments. The sorcerer apparently felt an under tunic of deep purple, and an ermine trimmed surcoat was more suitable to his new station and a better fit than Arthur’s own raiment. 

So it was an unwelcome surprise when Arthur pushed open the wooden door to the Armory and slipped through to find not the expected gathering of palace advisers awaiting him, but rather the one individual he least wanted to meet: Merlin.

“Ah! Arthur,” the sorcerer greeted, looking somewhat ridiculous in one of the king’s finer ceremonial robes that was far too broad in the shoulder and short in sleeve. “So glad you could attend.”

Arthur surveyed the room, taking in the racks of weaponry, hanging shields, pennants, and polished armor. Aside from Merlin and himself, the two knights at his back, and… he raised a pair of startled eyebrows - yes, the rather curious presence of a dun colored goat – there was no one else present.

“I was…” Arthur evaded, his thoughts running swiftly ahead. “…coming to pick up a flail.” He gestured towards a two-headed spiked version of the bludgeoning weapon hanging on the wall. “Sir Elyan and Sir Borin here were going to train with me.”

Merlin laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “Oh Arthur, you naughty boy, you. No you weren’t. You called a meeting of your council.” He smiled and tipped his head, black eyes fixed on Arthur as though he were a particularly baffling puzzle in need of solving. “Do you really think I wouldn’t know?”

Arthur lifted his chin. So, if his little ruse was uncovered, there was nothing to do but push ahead and make the best of it. “I have the right to call a meeting of my council.” 

“Yes. Yes, that you do,” admitted Merlin, taking a slow turn around the room. “Odd thing though.” He raised a finger, punctuating the point. “I thought I was a member of your precious Royal Council, Arthur. So why wasn’t I invited to this little tryst? Hmm?” The mage smiled at him again. “Could it be you preferred I wasn’t present, so you could discuss what to do about your nefarious wizard? About _me_?”

Arthur swallowed heavily. Not much one could say to that.

Merlin chuckled. “Oh, don’t look so worried, Pendragon. I expected nothing less. In fact, I would have been disappointed if you had not made some effort to reign me in. It makes it all so much more fun this way. Besides…” and there was a glimpse of steel behind the smile, like the flash of dagger slipped part way from its sheath. “You don’t really understand yet, do you? You haven’t accepted that it does not do to cross me.” And then, all pretense of amity vanished and there was only cruel distain written upon the upturned lips. “It is a lesson I am looking forward to teaching you.” 

His hand shot out, fingers spread, and before Arthur could do more than draw in a breath, several polearms rattled and pulled free from their racks to fly across the room and thunk deeply into the arched wooden transom above his head. Arthur recoiled, and felt Elyan’s steady presence at his shoulder, his hand splayed between Arthur’s shoulder blades. With a thin, metallic whisper, Borin’s sword slipped free of its scabbard. Lips drawn back in a warning snarl, the knight brandished it at the warlock.

“Now. Now.” Merlin admonished. “There is no need for that.” He twitched his fingers, and Borin’s sword flew from the knight’s hand to land with a loud clang on the other side of the room. “Just a small demonstration, is all. No reason to get testy.”

“We should leave.” Elyan’s voice was a soft and urgent in Arthur’s ear. 

“Oh, don’t go yet,” Merlin beseeched while his fingers casually began to weave a web of magic around himself. “Lord Uriens and I have been waiting so patiently for you to join us.” 

“Lord Uriens?” Arthur glanced around again, but the Dumnonian Lord was nowhere to be seen. 

Merlin hummed in agreement. “Yes. I am afraid it’s just the two of us here at your request. The other counselors left. Rather in a hurry, I must say. Royal summons or not, they did not seem keen on staying after Uriens and I had a bit of a disagreement.” 

From all corners of the room, small weapons had begun to respond to Merlin’s magical call. Axes, flails, daggers and maces jerked free of racks and hooks to float across the Armory and join the growing assortment circling the magician’s head like buzzards at a kill. “I am sure we must have something to discuss. Taxes? Grain stores? That new well in the lower town?” He waggled his fingers, and the weapons began to spin ever faster. “Sorcerers turned rogue, perhaps?”

Mouth gone dry, Arthur watched the cloud of razor sharp weapons flashing in the pale light as they swirled about Merlin’s head. Licking his lips, Pendragon inquired, “And where is Uriens? I don’t see him.”

“Silly, Arthur. He’s right there, in front of you.” The mage nodded at the goat which had wandered close and was trying to get a mouthful of Sir Borin’s cloak. It bleated unhappily, as the knight twitched his cape aside. 

Arthur blinked and inhaled sharply. “That’s…? You can’t be serious!”

“You always did call him an ‘old goat’, did you not?” Merlin twittered at his joke. “And so he is!”

“Merlin! You can’t just go around changing my court advisers into… into barn animals!”

“Oh, but I can! I’ve already told you!” He spread his arms wide, surrounded by his whirlwind of weaponry. “I can do anything I want!”

“Change him back!” Arthur snapped, taking a step towards the wizard. He might have considered the tart-tongued Lord Uriens to be an unwelcome thorn in his side, but this sort of abuse of his councilors was not to be tolerated. 

“You no longer get to tell me what to do!” Merlin spat, glaring at Arthur. “You can beg. You can cajole. You can get down on your knees and plead. But you no longer hold any dominion over me!”

“Merlin!”

“No!” Merlin shot out a hand and Arthur felt as though he was picked up in the crushing grip of a giant and flung across the room. He landed hard, sliding across stone till he struck the wall, his head snapping back with a crack that resounded inside his skull. Lights exploded behind his eyes, then bled away. Darkness stole across his vision like the sweep of a crow’s wing. He heard Elyan’s frantic cry and a roar of rage from Sir Borin. Then, nothing more as he sank into unknowing. 

-

#### 

*********

-

Someone was shaking him, and calling out words he could not discern. He thought he heard his name, but it sounded muffled and far away, like a cry buried beneath a thick, woolen blanket or echoing from the bottom of a well. 

_Merlin?_ Had his inept manservant let him oversleep again?

But no. 

Merlin wasn’t his manservant anymore. 

Merlin was… 

Merlin was…

Thinking about Merlin filled him with a nameless dread that seeped like a foul stench into all corners of his mind, curdling his thoughts. 

So he stopped thinking about Merlin.

The _someone_ was shaking him again, and this time the voice was clearer, sounding tight and anxious. “Arthur? Please. Sire? Can you hear me?”

 _Elyan?_ That has sounded like Elyan. A very distraught Elyan.

Arthur tried to open his eyes, turning his head and hissing as the movement jogged his skull. Thick, sour tasting bile rose at the back of his throat, and for a moment, he thought he would be sick.

Why did his head feel like an over-ripe melon baking in the sun and ready to burst? Surely, he had not gone out drinking at the Rising Sun with Gwaine and Sagramor again. He had sworn that off. It did not do for people to see their king stumbling along the streets after too much ale.

He groaned, long and low, letting the grating sound scour away some of his pain, and cracked open one eye.

He had been correct. Elyan’s nut-brown face swam into focus, his brow smoothing as he saw that Arthur was coming round. “Sire! Thank the gods. Can you sit up?”

Arthur grunted an affirmative, and allowed Elyan to assist him into an upright position.

“What happened?”

The brow clouded over again. “You don’t remember? Merlin threw you. You hit the wall.”

Arthur eyes fluttered closed, and behind them he saw flickering images reeling through his mind like shards of a broken mirror – Merlin surrounded by a cyclone of flying weapons. Merlin throwing out his hand. Merlin’s eyes glowing with a hellish light. He gasped and scanned the room in alarm. “Merlin!”

“Gone,” answered Elyan. “He left after…” Trailing into silence, he glanced at something across the room, his face strained and lips bloodless. 

Arthur followed the knight’s gaze and saw a pair of booted feet sticking out from behind a heavy, wooden chest. 

“Sir Borin?”

“Dead.” Elyan’s face was set, but Arthur could hear the thread of agitation running through his voice. 

“Dead?”

“He… He went after Merlin. I shouted at him to stop, but…” His head dropped in defeat. “I am sorry, Sire.”

Arthur nodded, carefully swaddling his emotions under layers of duty. He would deal with them later. “Help me up.”

Elyan clasped Pendragon’s hand tightly, and pulled him to his feet, bracing him until he found his balance. A few steps brought the fallen Borin into view. It only took a glimpse to comprehend what had happened, how Merlin’s whirlwind of armaments had become a deadly storm. The knight’s body was riddled with wounds, hacked apart by a flurry of weapons. Daggers jutted from his chest. The chain of a flail was wrapped around his neck. An axe was buried in the center of his skull, splitting it apart. Blood and brain matter was spattered around him, dripping from the walls in slow rivulets and glistening like rubies scattered across the floor. 

For a moment, Arthur could only stare, transfixed by the slowly spreading pool of blood, watching a finger of crimson trickle between the floor tiles, snaking its way across the room. The metallic smell hung thick in the air.

“By all the gods…” someone rasped, and at first, Arthur did not recognize his own voice. But there were no gods here. Not the capricious gods of the old religion, nor the mysterious god of the new Christ. No, this was not the work of gods, but of a madman. A madman with magic as his ally.

“Merlin…” Swamped with despair, Arthur closed his eyes. Perhaps he swayed, for Elyan’s arm was suddenly around his shoulders, holding him steady. 

“He _was_ attacked, Sire.” 

Arthur turned to find a pair of brown eyes fixed upon him, sympathetic and brimming with solace. He understood what Elyan was offering – possible justification. A path to forgiveness. Something he could hold on to in the face of such betrayal. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he croaked, mouth tasting of dust. “We’ll send someone for the body.” 

“What about…?” Elyan waved vague at the goat that was busy sampling the fringe of one of the dragon pennants. 

Indeed, what to do about Lord Uriens, if he was actually Lord Uriens and not some elaborate tomfoolery on the part of Merlin. Another glance at Borin’s torn body convinced Arthur that the goat was likely not a prank. “I suppose we put him in the pens with the other goats.” 

Perhaps it was merely his imagination, but he could have sworn the goat bleated at him in disapproval. However, at the moment, he had far more pressing matters than whether he was provoking either a goat, or Lord Uriens.

-

#### 

*********

-

Arthur heard the girl’s muffled screams as he turned the corner. Her cries of terror, unstrung and frantic, rebounded off the stone walls of the hallway. For a moment, his feet slowed, stumbling, as he considered turning aside and hurrying away. _‘By all that’s holy, what are you doing, Merlin?’_ he wondered, feeling ill.

No, not Merlin.

The Imposter.

He had long since ceased to think of their nemesis as “Merlin”. For a time, he had tried referring to him as, “Not-Merlin,” in his mind, but even that had proven far too painful - the “not” alone lacked the power necessary to overcome the emotions engendered by that one name. Therefore, he had taken to calling the dark warlock “The Imposter” - a creature who had stolen the real Merlin’s life away from him. Merlin, _his_ Merlin, he liked to imagine, was just as trapped in this nightmare as the rest of them. One day, he told himself, they would defeat The Imposter, and _his_ Merlin would be freed. He refused to consider any other outcome.

The girl shrieked again and Arthur flinched. Really, this was too much. _‘They ask too much,’_ his mind protested. How was he supposed to deal with this? A part of him longed for a time, long in the past, when he could have stamped his feet and shouted demands, and servants would have rushed to do his bidding, assuaging his every whim. But those days were gone. There was no one to set things to rights. 

No one but himself. 

The guard who had been sent to fetch him was shooting him wide-eyed, nervous glances, looking to him to save them all. And if Arthur’s agitated escort had noticed his king’s faltering step, he did not mention it. 

As he straightened his shoulders and marched determinedly towards the throne room, Pendragon berated himself for not sending word to the countryside that the hearing of petitions would not be held this turn of the moon. It had not occurred to him. He had been so wrapped up in the situation, he had never considered the flood of supplicants who would appear before the court to air their grievances. Petitioners who had arrived would have no warning that things were not exactly routine in Camelot at present. His negligence had led his people straight into peril. 

A few peasants brushed by, fleeing down the corridor, their faces pale with horror. He passed guards, huddled in uncertain clumps, and overheard some of their whispered words; 

“…never would have happened when his father…” 

“…told you, nothing good ever comes from sorcery.” 

“…ban should never have been lifted….” 

“….burned that cursed warlock before he ever stepped foot in Camelot…”

He could not help but wonder if they might have been right.

All but that last. 

Put Merlin to the flame? 

Tie him to the pyre and watch his flesh blacken as he screamed his life away? 

No…never that.  
 _‘It’s not Merlin,’_ he wanted to rant at them, to take them by the shoulders and shout into their faces. _‘This isn’t Merlin. Merlin would never do this!’_

And yet… here they were. Perhaps this had been inevitable. Perhaps his father had been right after all. Perhaps magic corrupted even the most innocent of hearts over time – even his beloved Merlin.

One weeping serving girl curled against the wall, her shoulders shaking. As he passed, she lifted her head, her thin face a splotchy wreck framed by tangled, dark tresses. She reached out, her fingers clawing at his sleeve. “Oh please, Sire. You must save Alith. That poor girl!” she babbled, and in her teary eyes he read the pleas of all his people. _“Save us!”_ they cried. _“Save us!”_ Her grip tightened on his arm, dragging on him like shackles of iron. 

_‘I don’t know how!’_ He wanted to scream. _‘Can’t you see? I don’t know how to stop him!’_

Instead, he covered her hand with his own. “I will. Don’t worry.” He prayed it was not a lie, and dragged forth a look he hoped was reassuring.

“Bless you, Sire.” Her narrow features blossomed with relief. She believed him – believed _in_ him. Her eyes shone with adoration and he pulled away hastily. Her unwavering faith was a burden he did not want… not in this.

The doors to the throne room were shut and a handful of courtiers huddled outside the door, whispering and exchanging fearful looks. He was surprised any of them remained in Camelot. He had thought most of them fled, after The Imposter had become vexed with the pompous Lord Brom. A casual wave of the warlock’s hand had instantly aged the man into doddering senility. Lord Brom and his entourage had ridden out of Camelot the next day, the once robust young Lord hunched atop his horse, reduced to withered husk. 

As the knot of opulent nobility parted to allow him passage, Arthur speculated on their presence. Perhaps they had hopes of insinuating themselves into The Imposter’s good graces. Or perhaps they were merely relishing the confrontation between their king and his once devoted head counselor. Not all those in Camelot had been particularly accepting of Merlin, resenting both his power in court, and his more personal relationship to the king. No doubt, some of them were pleased with the situation. 

His suspicions were partially confirmed when Count Rowan turned to him with an oily smirk. “It looks like your pet sorcerer has slipped his leash, Your Majesty. What do you intend to do about it?” Arthur used to think the man’s twisted sneer was just an unfortunate deformity from birth. Now he realized it was an affected distain for all things royal. Upon taking up the crown, he really should have had the unctuous, little man tossed out upon his rear. However, for some reason his father had respected the count’s counsel so Arthur had allowed him to remain. 

High time to rectify that decision. 

“I will do what I can to restrain him, of course. Though, I fear for you all if I am unsuccessful. He has of recent been musing upon decorating the great hall with statues of courtiers, and I do not think he means to contract with a stone mason to do the work.” He pulled an uneasy face. “I believe he even mentioned you by name, Count Rowan.” 

It was no empty threat. Arthur himself flinched each time he happened by one of the frozen, stone figures scattered throughout the castle. Most of them were guards, bespelled in those first few hours before Arthur had learned the careful balancing act necessary to placate his now enchanted court sorcerer. However, there were also a smattering of nobles, knights, and servants.

His words should send them scattering. Only those most loyal to him would remain, as it should be. Though in truth, those were the very ones he wished he could convince to flee, for their own safety, and for his peace of mind.

He watched with satisfaction as some of the color drained from Count Rowan’s handsome face. The courtier shuffled back a few steps, drawing his fur-lined cloak more tightly around himself. “I see…” he muttered, then dragged a fawning smile from somewhere. “Then certainly, we must hope you are successful.” 

Arthur dismissed him with a wry nod of his head. Stepping forward, he signaled for the guards on either side of the great doors to open them, but the men shuffled their feet and exchanged guilty glances.

Arthur understood their reluctance. After all, this was not a confrontation he was looking forward to either, but the girl was still screaming and something had to be done, or at least attempted. “Open the doors,” he ordered, waving an imperious hand as well, just in case there was some misunderstanding. He hoped his voice held confidence, even if the rest of him was feeling a bit shaky.

“Sorry, Sire,” stuttered the one on the right, who bore a lamentable resemblance to a donkey. Arthur recalled the man’s name as Henry the Younger, son of one of the doomed guards currently standing frozen in the palace courtyard. Good men both, despite the younger’s unfortunate buckteeth and long face. “They won’t open.” 

The second one bobbed his head in agreement. “We’ve tried.”

Arthur sighed and reached for the handles himself, giving them a good solid tug. 

They did not budge. 

He tried again. 

Nothing.

Of course.

But he knew the way in. It was simple really, but it rankled. He drew in a deep breath, and bellowed as loudly as he could…

“MERRRR – LIN! Open the doors this instant!”

It was his most arrogant, disdainful tone, honed to perfection over the years of traded banter and insults, and it worked. As much as Arthur hated to think of The Imposter as anything like Merlin, the dark mage seemed to relish in the name, taking almost perverse pleasure in hearing Arthur call him such. He would not miss the opportunity now. 

The doors creaked open of their own accord and Pendragon stepped through. Immediately, he was jostled by a rush of people bolting from the room; servants, peasants, courtiers… As the last of them, the court genealogist, waddled across the threshold, the heavy doors slammed shut in his wake, cutting off the guards who sought to follow him. The snick of the locks twisting and the scrape of the cross beam slotting itself into place echoed with a finality that seems to suck the very air from the room.

For a moment, all was stillness, then other figures in the room began to move, like shadows come to life, drawing closer. With a rush of gratitude, Arthur realized that he had not been completely abandoned to his fate. Several of his most trusted knights were present – Leon, Percival, and Elyan. They drifted silently to his side, positioning themselves to defend him. They were as aware as he that they have no real defense against The Imposter’s magic, but their show of support gladdened his heart. 

The remainder of Camelot’s forces did not seem to have fared as well. Around the room, guards and knights lay scattered like broken toys, fallen bodies clothed in crimson and gold livery, and their cloaks, spread about them like spilled blood. Arthur supposed that to the Imposter, they truly were no more than playthings. He could not tell if they were breathing. His own breath froze in his chest for a moment as he wondered if this was the fate that had befallen Lancelot, Sagramor, and Gwaine.

 _Please no._

He wanted to look closer, but dared not take his attention from The Imposter.

There was a soft rustle of fabric from behind, and someone slipped quietly to his side. Chilled fingers closed on his wrist and he turned to find Guinevere gazing at him with wide, frightened eyes. Some of her dark, curling tresses had escaped her elaborate coiffe and tumbled free over her shoulders. He reached to tuck one behind her ear, an assuetude of which he had grown particularly fond. Her lips were pale, and he could feel the minute trembling of her fingers, but she lifted her chin purposefully and slotted her fingers into his own with familiar ease. 

He smiled at her, trying for reassurance, and clutched her hand in his.

The message from all of them, his queen and his knights, was clear. 

_‘We will face this together.’_

Apparently, he was not the only one to receive it. 

“Well, isn’t that charming,” crooned a voice from the far end of the room. “A united front. Useless of course, but still charming.”

The Imposter. 

Slumped insolently in Arthur’s throne at the far end of the room, the dark wizard watched them with a faint air of boredom. One leg, tossed casually over the arm of the chair, swung loosely, his foot sketching slow circles in the air. 

Before the throne, two wyverns crouched on the low steps. They had arrived sometime in the night in response to The Imposter’s summons. Startled citizens of Camelot had scattered in panic as the two beasts stalked the halls, their flame-red eyes gleaming like hot coals in the dark. The Imposter referred to them as his “pets”, but it was obvious they were not meant to curl upon a lap, but to protect and intimidate. Presently, they hunched like gargoyles come to life, spitting and snarling over a bloody chunk of meat which Arthur desperately hoped was a haunch of venison, or the shank of a hog, and not… He turned his mind from even the thought. 

The whole scene should have been ridiculous – but it was not. It was, instead, terrifying.

Arthur tried to free his hand from Gwen’s, his intention being to leave her behind when he approached the throne. If possible, he would wish her half a kingdom away. Barring that, he would at least have her and The Imposter at opposite ends of the long chamber. However, it became apparent that she did not agree with his strategy as her grip only tightened when he attempted to draw free. As he turned to remark, she answered him with a stubborn tilt of her chin and a flash in her dark eyes that brooked no argument. It was a look he knew well, and had yet to thwart. It was unlikely she would yield this time, so he acquiesced gracefully, with a lift of his eyebrows and a nod of his head.

Steeling himself, he strode forward, making his way down the long hall. Guinevere remained at his side, her hand in his as she matched his pace. The knights fell into place, flanking them to right and left. As they approached, the sorcerer seemed to dismiss them with a nonchalant flip of his hand, shifting his attention back to his current source of entertainment. 

In the center of the room, a young serving girl hung suspended in space beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling. Her hair was tangled about her in disarray, and her bodice and chemise, torn from one shoulder, gaped to reveal a plump, pink breast. Arthur could see her feet peeking from beneath the hem of her chemise, skirt, and kirtled apron. One was shod in a worn slipper, the other bare. He caught sight of the missing slipper on the floor beneath her. 

The Imposter was smiling lightly, fingers twirling in the air as he hummed a cheerful tune. In the air above them, the girl screeched as she pirouetted and tumbled in the hold of his magic.

“Merlin…” Arthur snapped, sharp and authoritative, coming to a halt before the throne. “Put the girl down.” He hoped use of the name would give him more leverage, but realized he was treading on very thin ice here. The warlock might indulge him, or he might decide to feed the girl to his wyvern. Arthur had no way of predicting, and the uncertainly curled and twisted in his stomach like a swarm of restless eels.

The Imposter’s lips protruded in an exaggerated pout. “Oh, Arthur, you really are no fun at all. What good are peasants, if we can’t make use of them for our entertainment?” 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Arthur recalled a gawky boy from Ealdor calling him out on his mistreatment of servants. 

_“I’d never have a friend who could be such an ass.”_

_‘Merlin,’_ he thought, fighting a wave of despair. _’I miss you.’ ___

“Besides,” continued The Imposter sullenly, “Why should I listen to you?”

 _’Because I am your king and you have sworn fealty to me!’_ Arthur wanted to shout, but it would do no good.

“Because she is but a frightened servant girl, and does not deserve to be treated in this manner.” Not that any of them did, he wanted to argue, but surely not the least among them. 

“But I’m having fun!” the magician smirked, and with a wave of his hand, tore the rest of the girl’s bodice and chemise away, baring her to the waist. She shrieked, and tried to cover herself, while the warlock threw back his head in laughter. “She screams so prettily. Don’t you agree?”

“I do not!” Arthur snapped, his fist closing knuckle-white over the pommel of his sword. “Put her down!”

The warlock turned to face Arthur slowly, his empty, soulless eyes unblinking. “Careful, Your Highness. You would do well not to annoy me.” His eyes slid past Arthur, settling on Guinevere, and the curl of his lips filled Arthur with dread. “After all, if you deny me this, I might have to find…” His head cocked, thoughtfully, “… other forms of diversion.”

Guinevere’s fingers tightened in his, and he heard a small, involuntary whimper rise in her throat.

Pendragon almost went after The Imposter in that moment, driven by outrage, grief over the loss of Merlin, and concern for Gwen. Five years ago, he would have - would have drawn his sword and thrown himself at the warlock with a roar of rage. However, kingship and time had taught him a measure of wisdom and self-control. Some battles were best fought with weapons other than iron and steel. The Imposter was looking for a reaction. Arthur refused to give it to him, though he could not help but clench his jaw in suppressed fury. Instead, he gave Guinevere’s hand a soft squeeze of encouragement, then let go, stepping away from her. _‘See,’_ he tried to signal with his actions. _‘She isn’t that important. Don’t think about her. Ignore her.’_ He took several steps to the side, slowly circling, deliberately drawing the wizard’s attention away from his queen. 

_‘Don’t look at her. Look at me. Concentrate on me.’_

His knights shadowed his movements.

“If you must entertain yourself by tormenting others,” Arthur intoned, affording the sobbing serving girl daggling in the air above his head a quick glance, “then choose me and spare my people.” 

The Imposter reacted with an exaggerated gagging sound, then spit, as if he needed to rid himself of something foul. “Eck. Noble Arthur. How utterly dreary.” He sat back and flicked his fingers at the king. “Tell me; doesn’t it get a bit tedious, always offering your life for your people? It certainly has grown tedious having to continually save you from your overgrown sense of self-sacrifice.”

 _‘You never saved me.’_ thought Arthur. _‘That was Merlin. Merlin saved me. Never you.’_

“I am nothing without my people.” Pendragon’s voice carried across the chamber, sure and strong. “They are the lifeblood of Camelot.”

The Imposter rolled his eyes. “Please, spare me your heroic speeches.” He laughed, but it was a grating, caustic sound, holding nothing of joy. “What is truly pathetic is that you actually believe that tripe.”

“Yes,” Arthur replied, easy and unashamed, “I do.” Then, because he refused to let this… creature … pretend any longer, he added, “And so did Merlin, before you stole his mind and body from him.”

The magician sat up at that, leaning forward to fix Pendragon with an intent, cold stare. At his feet, the wyverns growled and snapped, rising to their feet. One of them stalked down the steps, pacing towards Arthur, tail lashing the air. 

“I should kill you,” The Imposter growled.

And oddly, Arthur was not afraid. He probably should have been, but after the stress of the last few days, the confrontation was almost welcome. He was, after all, more comfortable with action than all this mincing about. If the mage destroyed him, then the knights would be free to do what they must. Arthur’s love for Merlin would no longer restrain them, and Arthur would be spared the pain of watching anyone else that he loved die. His knights, Gwen, Merlin. He could not stand the thought of losing any of them, and yet he did not know how to save any of them either. It was selfish and unworthy of a king, but he could not help wish himself released from having to make the choice at all.

He swallowed hard, and offered up the challenge in his most arrogant tone. “Then, why don’t you?” 

The Imposter came up out of his chair suddenly, uncoiling like a snake. He threw out a hand, cryptic words dripping off his tongue, vile and oily and filled with the promise of pain.

  


Then, Arthur was flying through the air. He slammed hard against the ornately carved walls of the chamber and was held there by a thought, struggling weakly, like an insect trapped in a drop of sap. From the corner of his eye, he saw Percival, Leon and Elyan start to move, coming to his aid. They barely managed two steps before the wizard snarled something guttural and they froze in place, snared in an eerie web of sickly, green tendrils. He saw the concentration on their faces as they fought against the magical restraints, but it appeared their efforts were futile.

The Imposter stepped closer, hand still stretched towards him, long, slender fingers flaring with blue light. The pressure built. The sorcerer’s eyes shone, lit from within, and not with the warm, golden glow Arthur knew well. Rather they flared crimson, as though the fires of hell were shining though, and as chilling as the dead blackness had been, this reddish flame was worse. 

As he gasped for air, lungs laboring, Arthur wondered if this was when he would die, his chest crushed in upon itself, his ribs splintered and his innards turned to jelly. He choked weakly, the taste of blood in his mouth, coating his teeth and tongue. Gwen was crying his name, but she sounded so very far away, beyond his reach. In some ways, she had always been beyond his reach. He wished he could tell her he was sorry. He wished he could spare her this. 

There was a dull, heavy pounding in his ears, and at first he thought it was from the building pressure. Then, he realized that someone was beating against the doors to the throne room – hammering and shouting –though he could not make out the words. 

“Ah…” The Imposter purred, “It seems Sir Gwaine, Sir Sagramor, and Sir Lancelot have finally arrived. Should we let them in so they can join the festivities?”

So Gwaine, Sagramor, and Lancelot still lived. Even crushed against the chamber walls and likely dying, Arthur could not help the surge of satisfaction that news brought.

“They could watch me as I break every bone in your body, one by one.” The warlock slowly curled his fingers into a fist. “Like this…” A quick, sharp squeeze, and Arthur felt something snap in his chest. 

A rib. 

He let out a choked cry, tears springing to his eyes as he tried to breathe through the slab of agony in his chest. 

The Imposter was close, so close. And it was not fair, because Arthur could catch his scent as he leaned in, laughing softly at the king’s useless struggles, and, gods, he smelled like Merlin. He was killing Arthur, wringing the life from his body, but he smelled like love, and hope and comfort, and the contradiction of it drove like a pike through the center of Arthur’s heart. He felt the soft tickle of an impotent tear trace its way down his face, carrying with it all his anguish.

The warlock reached out, his hand gently brushing Arthur’s cheek as he caught the tear on a fingertip. It glistened in the light as he touched it to the tip of his tongue, seeming to savor the subtle taste. Such an intimate gesture; it served as both a provocation and an acknowledgement. 

“You still love him.” There was a touch of wonder in the voice, a hint of surprise. The Imposter cocked his head, his features flickering with speculation and calculation. His glowing eyes locked with Arthur’s in challenge. “I can read it in your eyes. I can… taste it. You never could hide from me, Arthur.” He leaned in, even closer, his nose nuzzling Arthur’s sweat stained temple, his lips brushing his ear. “Never as much as you wished.” 

“Just… kill me… and be done… with it.” Arthur spit, forcing the words passed the crushing tightness in his chest. “I will not… be… your plaything.” He claimed a small victory when his words spattered flecks of blood across his tormentor’s face. 

The Imposter wiped at his cheeks, smearing the blood, then studied his bloodstained fingertips with vague interest. “No. No. That would be too simple, and not nearly so diverting.” His tongue darted out, licking the blood from his fingers. If his magic had not already pinned Arthur to the wall, then the power of his gaze would likely have done so. 

There was a hacking, splintering sound from the great doors where Lancelot, Sagramor, and Gwaine were forcing their way in, using axe and halberd. 

The Imposter cupped Arthur’s chin in long fingers, leaning in once more, to breathe a whispered threat. “You see, there is still hope in your eyes. Foolish, threadbare hope. But one day, one day soon, that hope will die…” He smiled, but there was nothing comforting in the lift of his lips. “Your love will twist itself into hate and fear, and then I will have won. On that day, I will own you, Arthur Pendragon.”

And he stepped away. 

Arthur found himself released as the pressure pressing him against the wall eased. He tried to get his feet under him as he fell, but ended up spilling to the floor in something closer to an uncontrolled sprawl than a fighting crouch. The tumble jarred his broken rib and he moaned in pain, curling one arm protectively against his side. The other, he braced against the floor and used to push himself to his knees.

The chamber doors gave with a tremendous crash, and Lancelot, Gwaine, and Sagramor burst into the room, climbing over the shattered doors in the lead of a company of knights. 

Arthur watched them come, a scarlet tide flowing down the length of the room, swords drawn, mouths open in howls of challenge. They seemed to move so slowly, as though the air was thick and heavy around them. Some type of magic, he assumed. Across their faces, in lines of sadness and determination, was written their intention: kill The Imposter, or sacrifice themselves in the trying. Lancelot - pale, but decided. Gwaine - features twisted by anguish, but no less driven. Sagramor - looking like a berserker Saxon warrior, teeth bared in a snarl, and axe raised high above his head. 

Arthur glanced in the other direction. 

The serving girl was slumped on the floor, her glassy gaze making her seem empty, like a doll with glass eyes. Gwen knelt at her side frantically shaking a shoulder. 

The Imposter was back on the throne, watching him. A small, secretive smile quirked his mouth. It was a smile Arthur knew well – he had seen it from time to time, playing around Merlin’s lips, before the king knew of his magic. 

“Take them and go,” the sorcerer told him. His lips did not move, but his voice was whispering right in Arthur’s ear. “Or I shall bathe this room in blood and make you lap it up with your tongue.”

Then Leon was crouching at his side, face stretched with horror. “Sire?” he asked, a million questions in his eyes. And Percival has an arm around Arthur’s back. He lifted the king to his feet -oh so easily - and yet with a gentleness that would put a new mother to shame. 

“Everyone out,” Arthur gasped, pressing his hand over his aching ribs. “Carry the fallen knights… and the… girl. Get everyone to safety.” 

It was a foolish command. There was no real safety, not for any of them. 

“But, Sire,” Elyan said, expression troubled. “What about Mer…” he stopped himself, looking down and biting his lower lip before trying again, “The sorcerer, Sire. What should we do about him?” 

“He tried to kill you.” Leon observed, rooting himself to the floor, his stance placing him in-between Arthur and The Imposter. His comment was offered in a matter of fact tone that suggests Arthur would know exactly what to do with this information.

“No…” Arthur pronounced. “If … he wanted me dead, I’d be dead.” He harbored no illusions. “He’s not done with me yet.”

Leon’s fingers tightened on his sword, and his eyes drifted to Elyan and Percival, seeking support. “It might be best to finish him. Now, before he destroys us all.”

“No!” Arthur’s voice was sharp. “You will not approach him!” He was not sure for whom he was most concerned, Merlin or his knights. What he did know was that any direct confrontation between them would be disastrous. Out of the corner of his eye, he could the remainder of his Round Table knights still enacting their ponderous, slow moving charge up the length of the room. Their shouts were as drawn out as their motions, flattened into a thick, low roar of sound. It was unsettling.

“Now, get everyone out of here.” He tried to pull free of Percival’s support, and found himself struggling ineffectually against the larger man’s greater strength. He stopped before he could completely embarrass himself, and turned an imperious glare on the broad shouldered knight. “I’m fine,” he said, and hoped the underlying command, _‘Let me go,’_ was obvious. Thankfully, Gwaine’s brand of insolence had not infected all the knights, for Percival dutifully set him on his feet without protest, though his expression was far from happy. 

Despite their sluggish advance, Lancelot, Sagramor, and Gwaine’s forces were finally drawing near the foot of the throne. The wyvern had risen to their feet, their lips drawn back and shoulders hunched forward, prepared to attack. 

The Imposter’s eyes were fixed on Arthur, his demeanor decidedly nonchalant. Yet, beneath the insouciant surface appearance, Arthur detected a coiled tension – a readiness. It was obvious the wizard was letting Arthur take the lead in this confrontation, and he suspected that, should the knights attack, there would be a bloodbath. 

The Imposter’s actions baffled him. The only thing Arthur was sure about was that they were only alive because the mage wanted them so – for the moment at least. If the warlock had an ultimate goal, Arthur was unable to determine what it might be. His motivations seemed impenetrable, almost random, and an unpredictable enemy was not one Arthur relished trying to outmaneuver. Why spare him? Why release the girl? Why refrain from destroying them all? It was like trying to find answers in the pattern of raindrops against a pane of glass, in the dance of sunshine on the forest floor, or in the ever-changing shape of the clouds. 

Most frightening of all, the thought had occurred to Arthur that this dark Imposter might merely be a manifestation of madness. Perhaps his court adviser had finally succumbed to the sinister nature of magic; in which case, Merlin might be lost to him forever. It was not something he wanted to consider closely. So, for the moment he shoved such speculation back into the deepest dungeon of his mind to remain in darkness - acknowledged, but hidden away, even from himself.

Instead, he focused upon the much more palatable belief that somewhere beneath the vile corruption, there still flickered a spark of Merlin’s light, struggling to push back against the shadows. That it might be Merlin to whom they owed this inexplicable show of mercy. 

That was the glimmer Arthur held in his heart. 

Foolish, threadbare hope indeed.

“Stop!” he yelled, directing his shout at the wave of knights approaching the throne. “Lancelot! Gwaine! Sagramor! Hold your attack!” 

Whatever time slowing spell had held them in thrall seemed to snap, leaving the knights stuttering to a halt before the throne, weapons at the ready. Lancelot stood with his sword in the ox guard position, his eyes fixated on the sorcerer. Beside him, Sagramor was breathing like a blacksmith’s bellows, two-handed axe raised high overhead. Gwaine kept snatching quick glances between Arthur and his fellow knights. “Sire?” he panted, mobile features twisting through a range of potent emotions. 

“Hold!” Arthur repeated, and made his way to the foot of the throne, doing his best to hide all evidence of his injured rib. 

Lancelot finally allowed himself a swift perusal of Arthur’s state. “Sire? Are you well?”

Oh, how to answer that. _Well?_ Hardly. He was confused, angry, sick at heart, and perhaps as close to despair as he has ever been, but only one answer would keep that sword from The Imposter’s throat. “I am fine, Lancelot. Stand down.”

With one final dark-eyed scowl at the figure on the throne, Lancelot stepped back and sheathed his sword. Behind him, the company of knights followed suit. Arthur could actually see Gwaine’s sigh of relief as he was spared the choice of killing someone who used to be a dear friend or dying at his hand. Sagramor took a moment longer to comply, but finally lowered the axe to rest across his shoulders. 

“Gather everyone and get them out of this room,” Arthur repeated his orders for the benefit of the newer arrivals. Under the watchful eyes of the crouching wyverns, the knights hurried to obey. 

“Until next time, then?” quipped a playful voice behind him, and he turned to see The Imposter’s eyes still on him, inky black once more, and unfathomable. 

Arthur gritted his teeth. “What do you want from us?” he could not help but ask, frustrated and beset.

“All that you can give me,” was the enigmatic answer, and then he laughed, long and loud, while the wyverns yipped and snapped at his feet. The echoes of the unholy clamor followed Arthur as he trailed his knights out of the chamber, the last to leave. He did not turn back to look at The Imposter sitting upon _his_ throne. 

-

#### 

*********

-

The weather had taken a turn for the worse again, winter proving tenacious and refusing to relinquish its reign to the coming of spring. The rain that fell was chilling cold, mixed with occasional sleet. The torches sputtered and spit as fitful, icy squalls lashed the castle walls. Those few lanterns that remained lit throughout the courtyard did little to drive back the encroaching night. 

As Arthur dragged a protesting Gwen through the lengthening shadows, he could not help but recall the old legends of how a land can reflect the health of the king. Surely, this turbulent gale suited his inner tempest. Gwen struggled against him, pulling hard, and he was sure there would be bruises circling her wrist – purple marks that would fade to green and yellow with the days. After the heat of his embrace and the warmth of his final kiss were long gone, these would be the last touches of his that would linger upon her skin. 

“I won’t go!” she shouted, fierce and fiery, and in that moment, he loved her deeply. She had not wanted to leave the side of Alith, the poor serving girl she was helping tend. Arthur doubted the pitiable child would ever recover completely. She had done little but stare at the ceiling since being assaulted by The Imposter, but Gwen had been with her constantly, murmuring words of encouragement while bathing her brow with cold compresses. “The People’s Queen,” they called her, with good reason. She was the heart of Camelot, and a good match for him on the throne. Though his feelings for her would never be as complex as those he carried for Merlin, she was his chosen queen, and he would see her to safety. 

They stumbled into the stables and Arthur drew up short, catching the silent, stealthy movement of a silhouette detaching from the walls, a greater darkness against the shadows. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, the movement catching his cracked rib and sending a stab of pain through his side. Then the figure stepped into the feeble light of a lantern, and Arthur saw it was Sir Lancelot, there to meet them as requested. The knight’s face, cast half in shadow half in the golden glow from the lantern, was troubled. “Your Majesty? I came as you asked.” His voice was hushed, a reminder to them all of the dangers they faced. Outside the stable, the storm lashed the walls, and the horses shifted and nickered uneasily. 

“Take her,” Arthur growled, dragging Guinevere forward and thrusting her into Lancelot’s arms. “Quickly. We haven’t much time.” 

Frankly, he was surprised they had made it this far. If The Imposter did not know yet, he would soon. He seemed to know everything that was happening within Camelot’s walls, and Arthur was sick with worry that if Lancelot and Guinevere were to escape it would be because it served some nefarious agenda of which he was unaware. 

“Arthur, please,” Gwen pleaded, and he heard tears in her words. “Don’t make me leave you!”

Lancelot enfolded her in his arms, running a hand over her damp hair and shushing her soothingly. She gentled under his touch. Arthur knew their obvious affection should bother him on some level, but it was this love, of which none of them would speak, that he was counting upon to save them by sending them away from here and beyond the sorcerer’s reach. 

Perhaps he was foolish to think they that would have any chance at all, that the dark warlock would not be able to find them and use them if he wished. However, hope was all he had now. He had not been blind to the way The Imposter had been watching Gwen with speculation in his eyes. He had defiled the unfortunate serving girl before the entire court, and Arthur no longer had any illusions about the fate that might befall his queen were she were to remain in Camelot.

“Sire,” Lancelot’s brown eyes were tormented, torn between loyalty and duty. “You ask me to abandon your side. How can I? I am sworn to protect you.” 

Lancelot was a good man, and a dear friend. Arthur well knew he had put the knight in an untenable position. If he were not so fearful of losing them both he might have felt badly about it. “You have sworn to follow my orders. I am ordering you to get the queen to safety.”

“No!” Gwen wailed, and Lancelot looked like he was coming apart at the seams, the anguish clear upon his face. For a moment, Arthur wondered if Merlin might have been right the night he teasingly hinted that Lancelot’s love was not just for Gwen, but encompassed Arthur himself. 

_“He is one of my best knights, and a steadfast friend.” Arthur slouched in his chair with his feet up on his writing table. “But love? Merlin…”_

_“There is more than friendship in his eyes,” Merlin answered with a soft smile. “I would know.”_

_Arthur snickered. “Jealous, Merlin?”_

_Merlin dropped his eyes and shook his head. “What good would it do? I would have to be jealous of the whole of Camelot. We are all in love with you, a bit, I think. You are the sun in our sky and without you there is no light.”_

That really had been just too poetic and soppy to be tolerated, so Arthur had thrown an apple core at his friend from across the room, and they had gone on to speak of other things. 

He shook the images out of his mind. It was too painful to think upon that Merlin, of his sweet smile and quiet laughter.

Watching Lancelot now, as he reached towards Arthur, mouth half-open but silent, as though the words simply would not leave his tongue, Pendragon was suddenly overcome by the absurd, clumsy humanity of it all. For all their lofty ideal and wise words, royalty or peasant, they were but men and women burdened by all the inherent weaknesses and passions they carried. Oddly, this did nothing to disillusion him, but only made him ache even more keenly for those he loved. 

He met his knight halfway, his hand clasping around Lancelot’s vambrace in a gesture that was both support and fraternity. “Lance, I entrust her to you. I cannot protect her here. You must.” 

It bedeviled him to admit it, chafing like poorly fitted armor, but the truth was already there in his decision to send her away. He could not protect her. Could not protect Lancelot. Could not protect his people anymore than he had protected Merlin. He had never felt so powerless. 

He turned to Guinevere and gently lifted the woolen hood of her bright red cloak to cover her hair, offering her a small bit of protection from the weather. For a moment, his hands cupped her face, trying to memorize the texture of her skin as she gazed up at him with tearful, brown eyes. He leaned down to kiss her one last time, pulling her to him, catching her lips with his own. Her mouth melted under his, one small spot of warmth in a world grown cold and uncertain. 

When he set her back on her feet, she tried to smile at him, a fragile gesture to hold against the coming dark. He traced one finger down her cheek, then stepped back, relinquishing her care to Lancelot. _‘Please,’_ he wanted to say, _‘be happy.’_ If death awaited him, he would ask that she and Lancelot find a small corner of peace for themselves. He could not speak the words aloud. Could not tell them to love well. To do so would have been an unforgivable breach, but he hoped they could hear him, nevertheless.

Lancelot’s watched them, his eyes shining suspiciously bright in the dimly light of the stable lanterns. He nodded at Arthur, accepting the burden of both his and Guinevere’s fates. “I will guard her with my life,” he swore, his voice rough in the dark.

“I know you will, my friend.” There was no doubt in Arthur’s mind. 

The knight laced his fingers to offer Gwen a leg up. He had chosen her mount well, a fine gelding that had been one of Morgana’s favorites. Not as docile as Gwen’s usual palfrey, Marigold, but with a strength and endurance which would serve them well.

“Arthur,” Gwen said again, voice stained with tears and heartache. She reached a hand down to him and he took it, clasping it between his own. He knew his own eyes were wet as he pressed his lips to her fingers. “Be safe,” he murmured, and let her go. She sobbed softly, one hand to her mouth as though to smother the cries. 

A swift clap to Lancelot’s back and he stepped aside, giving them room. 

“My Liege, you should come,” Lancelot proffered, as he mounted his own chestnut stallion. His look was a plea. _‘Don’t make us go. Don’t make us leave you.’_

Arthur shook his head. “You know I cannot.” He realized this would likely be his death. Perhaps his father had been right. Perhaps magic could only end in betrayal and destruction, but ultimately, it had been his choice to make. He was willing to pay whatever the price now asked of him for having trusted Merlin - for loving him. However, he would not ask that price of any others, not ask that it be borne by those he loved. He would send them away instead. 

If he could.

Lancelot shared a final look, then nodded resigned. “We make for Joyous Gard.”

“Excellent. You should be safe there.” 

_‘For now,’_ his doubts whispered in his ear. _‘For now, until The Imposter decides to drown all the world in fire. ’_

“Ride hard, and do not return unless I send for you.”

“It has been an honor and a privilege to serve you, Arthur Pendragon,” Lancelot proclaimed, his voice catching. “You shall ever be my true king.” Gwen tucked in beside him as he wheeled his horse, and together they headed for the gate. The clatter of their horses’ hooves was loud in the stillness of the courtyard. 

Arthur stood in the shadow of the Gatehouse and watched them disappear beneath the portcullis to be swallowed by the darkness and an unknown future. He realized he had never seen the bailey so deserted. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what The Imposter would do. 

He remained until the sound of the horses faded into silence, then lingered some more, listening to the storm weep and wail as though the very elements were lamenting Camelot’s slow destruction. If he shed any tears, they were lost amidst the lash of rain that flayed his skin. Gusts of wind whipped around him, tugging restlessly at his cloak, slipping icy fingers under his clothing. He shivered, and finally turned back to the castle proper, watching as his reflection rippled through the dark puddles on the flagstones, a flash of washed-out color, ghostly and alone.

He was four steps inside the main doors to the Keep, shaking the rain from his hair and cloak, when the warlock spoke from the dark. “You sent them away.” 

Pendragon froze as The Imposter seemed to coalesce out of the gloom, gliding forward, his black surcoat a shadow among shadows. The light thrown by the wall sconces played over the embroidered druid symbols upon his clothing, setting their silver threads alight with cold fire. The torch flames also revealed his features, features which Arthur knew in exquisite detail. Had mapped by sight. By touch. By taste. Yet, those once familiar contours seemed as remote as those of a stranger.

  


He was expecting anger, but the warlock appeared more amused than anything.

“I sent them to safety,” Arthur ground out, fist tightening on the pommel of his sword. “I would not have you harm them.”

“To safety? Hmm.” The full lips curled in a nasty smirk. “I suppose it comforts you to think so.”

Arthur jutted out his chin in silent challenge, and the wizard chuckled. “Oh Arthur, you blind, trusting fool. They will betray you. You do realize that, don’t you?” 

“They will not.”

“Of course they will.” The voice dripped false sweetness, as though talking to a feeble-minded simpleton. “You’ve tossed them right into each other’s arms, haven’t you? Dear, sweet Gwen and brave Sir Lancelot, seeking comfort in each other’s embrace.” The sorcerer shook his head in false regret. “You will be a cuckold before the moon turns.”

Arthur’s whole body clenched in fury. “Shut up.” And yet, was there not some truth in what he said? Had Arthur not chosen Lancelot to escort Gwen for just that reason? That if the worst were to come to pass, and Camelot were to fall, at least the two of them might find some happiness in a life together?

“Not that I blame them, mind you. It must be so difficult for poor Guinevere, knowing your husband loves another more than you - that he has given his heart to some skinny, inept servant boy and that you are little more than a brood mare to birth his brats.” He smiled wickedly, “How unfortunate that her womb is but a barren wasteland, and your issue withers upon the vine.”

Arthur exhaled sharply in distress, the air knocked from him by the cruel words as forcefully as if he had been struck hard in the abdomen. Guinevere’s inability to conceive had troubled them all. Gwen had begged the local midwives for potions and tonics, and even in desperation once tearfully approached Merlin about the possibility of using magic. Merlin had been so shaken it had taken Arthur hours to talk him down. Magic had never been mentioned again. He remembered their shared sense of wondrous joy when Gwen told them she was with child. And then had come the terrible night of tears and dashed dreams when she lost the child and nearly her life. Gaius had told them she might never be able to bear again. Merlin had been there for both of them, through it all, doing all he could to help them cope. For The Imposter to use those memories against him now? It was intolerable.

Arthur took a step forward, nostrils flaring, fighting back his pain with the heat of rage. “Don’t you dare speak of her that way!” 

The magician seemed altogether unconcerned with the king’s show of bravado. “Why not? It is only the truth. Do you think she does not feel the sting of knowing she will always come second to me? That she was chosen out of duty, not desire? Do you believe that she does not lie awake at night, fearing that you will abandon her because she cannot provide you an heir?”

“That is not true! I would never… I love Gwen!” And he did. Perhaps not in the way he loved Merlin, but with a fierce protectiveness and deep reverence.

The sorcerer waved a chiding finger under his nose. “But not enough. Not enough, Arthur. Not as a woman should be loved.” He casually turned his back, leaving himself open and vulnerable, almost taunting Pendragon to do something, to make some move against him. “And so she will turn to Lancelot. She will spread her legs wide for him, and he will bury himself in her, with hopes it will quench his thirst for you…” He glanced back over one narrow shoulder towards the king, his smile wicked and knowing. “Because having her is as close to having you as he can ever hope to aspire.” 

“I will not listen to your filthy lies!” Arthur cringed to hear the agony bleeding through the cracks in his denial.

“But lies are all we have.” The Imposter stalked around the king, passing in and out of the pools of light thrown by the torches – one moment naught but creeping shadow and the next limned in gold. “Camelot’s very foundation is rotten, despite all your pretty words praising her grandeur. Uther lied to you about your birth. Gaius has lied about his past. The lies told to Morgana set her feet on the path to destruction. And in return, she lied about her intentions for us all. I lied about my magic for years. Even now, you lie to yourself. You tell yourself you don’t believe my words, but you do.”

“Silence!” Arthur roared, shaking with emotion. He did not want to hear this. The warlock’s mouth was filled with foul trickery and twisted accusations but there was a thread of verisimilitude running through his words. 

And oh, it hurt.

“Even the great love affair between the golden King and Queen of Camelot, a tale celebrated in lay and ballad across the land, is little more than pretentious deceit wrapped up in frippery. Isn’t that so, Arthur?”

“No!” Arthur shouted, his voice sounding crushed and broken, as if it was being torn from his throat. “It’s not like that! You know it is not like that!”

But it could have been – their relationship could easily have been nothing more than a sham born of duplicitous hearts and indifferent kisses, but it never had been that. Never.

Though he might have been somewhat naïve when he first fell for Guinevere, the passage of years had eventually brought Arthur, not only maturity, but also the gift of insight. Over time, he had come to understand that the whirlwind romance which had initially swept Gwen into his arms had not been born of shared experience and empathy. Rather, it had been birthed from idealized dreams, conceived out of their joint hopes for the future of Camelot. Gwen had fallen in love with the king she envisioned Arthur could become, and Arthur had been infatuated with the idea of a consort who would speak her mind, overcoming the deference of his position. Their marriage had afforded both of them a tactical advantage. Gwen had gained station for herself and her kin, and by elevating a servant to the position of queen, Arthur had forcefully demonstrated his determination to change the status quo in Camelot. 

For both of them, their relationship had served as a means to an end for the betterment of the kingdom. This did not make their love any less sincere, but long ago, they both had acknowledged that their marriage was as much political expediency as fairy-tale. 

It had come as quite a shock when Arthur eventually realized that much of what he admired and cherished most in Gwen - her unshakable faith that he would be a great king, her willingness to argue when she felt he was wrong, her ability to bridge the chasm between peasant and royalty, and the way in which her very presence made him strive to improve himself daily - were the very characteristics he had been telling himself were nothing but annoying faults in Merlin. 

Denial has a way of blinding even the most honorable of men. 

With that sudden clarity had come the understanding that, similarly, the traits Gwen had admired most about him were a reflection of the nobility she was drawn to in Lancelot. 

It could easily have ended in tragedy for all of them, their deep friendships, affection and love torn apart by the forces of jealously and rivalry. Yet, somehow, they had managed to negotiate the perilous intricacies of their uniquely entangled relationships, avoiding most of the potential pitfalls. 

Pendragon was not the same man he had been just a few short years ago, and much of that was due, in part, to the supportive influence of both Guinevere and Merlin.

The Arthur of the past would have given into rage. Now, he took several calming breaths and managed once again to center himself. “I love Guinevere,” he stated, striving for resolve despite the tremble in his voice. “I always have. And she loves me. That we also love others does nothing to lessen our feelings. Do you really think any of the venom you spout is going to change what is in my heart?”

The Imposter’s vile chuckle seemed almost physical, sending a shiver crawling up Arthur’s spine like an abomination. “Oh, and what is in your heart, Arthur Pendragon? Whom do you truly love? You are as fickle as a village strumpet.” In a sing-song he jeered, “Gwen or me? Me or Gwen? What to do? What to do?” His robes swept the floor as he twirled in the dark. “You could not choose between us, so you claimed us both as your just due. How simply you absolve yourself of sin. Such nobility!”

Pendragon stiffened and turned away, heading towards the inner keep. “I will not subject myself to anymore of this abuse.” He wanted to bolt, but kept his back straight and regal, his pace steady.

“Oh my, what is the matter?” The question mocked him, the once beloved voice now malignant with derision. “Too delicate for the truth?” 

Arthur resisted the urge to place his hands over his ears to block out the sharp-edged accusations. They struck too close and wounded too deep, awakening his innermost fears and fueling his shame. He has shared such soul deep secrets with no one but Merlin, and to have them turned against him with such malice was more than he could bear.

As he reached a turn in the corridor, he was yanked backwards by an invisible force and slammed against the wall. His head bounced off the unyielding stone, and blood flooded his mouth as his teeth caught his tongue. He spat, trying to clear the iron taste, and hissed in pain. His injured side cried out in protest; it was as though a beast lived within the cage of his ribs, and had awoke, all claws and teeth. Gaius had wrapped Arthur’s chest, but such measures offered little protection against being tossed into walls.

The Imposter glided down the passage, the sound of his footsteps slithering across the stone. “I don’t recall dismissing you, Pendragon.” His tone was patient, yet chiding, as though parent to an errant child. “I am not done with you yet.”

Spine pulled taught as a bowstring, senses on full alert, Arthur tracked the warlock’s stealthy approach. For the first time Pendragon could truly empathize with the rabbit frozen before the wolf, hoping that its stillness will conceal it from predatory eyes. 

But there was nowhere to hide, and The Imposter’s obsidian eyes seemed ready to peel away all his defenses and swallow him whole.

“And now that you have sent your bitch away, what will you do?” The sorcerer drew near, his voice a whisper as he inquired, “Who will warm you bed? Who will comfort you in the night?” His breath wafted against Arthur’s chilled skin, a brush of warmth, like a vow. “I’m still here…”

Arthur closed his eyes. “Don’t touch me.”

A dry chuckle at his ear. “Spoken like you actually believe yourself in command.” A soft, nuzzling touch beneath his ear, the press of lips against his neck. 

Arthur’s eyes flew open again. The Imposter was so close now. His scent. His breath. The thick spill of his hair across his brow. His comical, oversized ears. All so dear. So familiar. Arthur’s spirit cried out, imprinted with sensory memory, reaching for the promise of solace.

“Let me go!” he growled, fighting back the desire to give in to the lure of past pleasures. 

A tongue glided, wet and hot, up the side of his neck. He shivered as cool air raised a chill along the stripe of moist warmth. “Stop!”

Teeth nipped at an ear lobe, and he hissed at the small sting. Then hands were on him, hands that glided up his arms, skated over his chest, carded through his hair – and the touches were all that he remembered, intimate and knowing. 

“Don’t!” he spat, twisting, the chords in his neck standing out, muscles bunching, as he strained against invisible bonds. There was no escape. No way to avoid the magician’s attentions.

The smell of Merlin was everywhere, soaking into Arthur’s skin, marking him. Desperately, he struggled to resist both The Imposter’s slow seduction, and his own temptation to succumb. 

A fragile, broken sound escaped as he glimpsed his own reflection swimming in the ebon depths of the warlock’s gaze - a pale face beneath a golden crown, swirling down into darkness. He was reminded of the inky puddles in the courtyard. Of a faded king, lost and alone - a tarnished reflection passing in and out of shadow. 

“Merlin,” he choked, and his voice was thin and shattered. “Help me.” His eyes slipped closed once more. “Where are you?” The question hovered on a bare breath of air.

“Here,” the warlock exhaled, leaning in.

“No…”

“Yes…” And then lips closed upon his, silken soft and tugging his bottom lip in just the way Merlin always loved to share kisses. Warm and sweet, but tainted by the tang of blood and the pang of a torn tongue. Tainted by the knowledge that this was wrong. 

So wrong.

He struggled to turn his head away, gasping and dizzy. “You are not… Merlin.”

“Yes, I am. I am your Merlin.” The voice twisted and twined, weaving seductively around Arthur like silken cord, leaving him off balance. “I am all that he was. I am all he will be. I am all that there is.” 

A purr in his ear, “I am yours.”

A body pressed to his, a weight and warmth sliding against him, sensual and demanding. “And you…” whispered the dark, “…will soon be mine.”

“Don’t do this,” he moaned, trembling, unraveling.

Then the mouth was back, savage this time. Diving in, capturing his mouth with a clash of lips and teeth. Wrestling away his control. And hands. Hands all over his body. Burrowing beneath the sticky damp of his clothing. Nails raking his bare skin. Clawing. Claiming. Hands that burnt, pressing hot against his chilled flesh. Hands that teased, tweaking at his nipples. Hands that tormented, fingers trailing incandescent fire in their wake. Hands that roused, sabotaging his inner battle to resist. He could not escape their touch. 

He scrambled to shore up his weakening defenses, crying out, “Merlin…! Merlin! Merlin, please!” And he no longer knew for whom he called. No longer understood why he pleaded. Did he cry out in hope of deliverance… or damnation? Did he beg for redemption… or release? Did he mourn the loss of his reason or welcome his perdition?

Teeth nipped, stinging sharp. Hands tightened, hard and demanding, fingers digging into his flesh. Arms wrapped him in a vice, heavy as iron manacles. His injured rib sent a flare of agony stabbing through him, as he was dragged downward. 

And he was falling. 

Falling like a shadow king reflected in a puddle, diminishing, spinning down into a twilight world.

He hit the floor, and The Imposter hovered over him, a looming blackness surrounding pale, gaunt features. Eyes, like the empty hollows in a skull, swam before his vision, threatening to swallow his soul. 

“Release me,” he whispered, voice cracking, a final plea for clemency.

Like a rotten piece of fruit, corrupt to the core, the ghostly face split apart into a wide, grin. “Oh, I have every intention of bringing you release, have no fear.”

Fingers tore at the fastenings of his clothing, working at his damp tunic and trousers, yanking them away to expose treacherous flesh. Arthur tried to stop the assault, tried to push away the unwanted touches, but his efforts were batted aside as easily as one might brush away a moth.

Though the warlock crouched atop Arthur like a great black bird, it was not his physical weight that chained Pendragon to the cold stones. It was the press of magic. Arthur could move but sluggishly, as though mired in mud. 

Teeth fastened upon his neck. No gentle nips this time, but harsh, wild bites scraping against his skin, drawing blood. A tongue laved at the blood, and lips sucked the torn flesh, raising welts. 

He bucked and cried out, even as his mind battered against the shackles of his physical form, trying to find a way to escape the treason of his body. Uther, Morgana, Gwen, Lancelot, and - yes, even Merlin. Ultimately, all of them had deceived him, and now he found he could not even trust himself. 

He tried one last time to free himself from his tormentor, pushing away with a groan. _“No! No! No…”_ He was no longer certain if he cried aloud, or only within the prison of his mind.

This was a battle he could not win, neither physically, nor mentally. The knowledge of his failure was as devastating as the thrust of a sword through his chest. Perhaps his life’s blood was not spilling onto the cold tiles, but he could feel his mind grow numb with shock regardless. 

Nails dug furrows along his bare hips, and teeth bit at the tender flesh of his inner thighs. His muscles trembled and twitched. 

Then lips, hot and encompassing, closed over his cock. A tongue danced over the head, tantalizing and provoking his flesh, drawing pleasure from his body. Unwilling or not, he was sucked deep into pulsing, wet heat as The Imposter began to move. His mouth engulfing Arthur’s member, the magician nursed and nuzzled. Fingers expertly worked his scrotum, rolling and squeezing as the pressure built towards white-hot need. Radiating fire spread from his core, a molten fever eating him from the inside outward. He shook and sobbed, the weight of his bereavement, his desolation, pressing down upon him. Mouth opening in a silent scream, he arched, his senses spiraling into white noise as he came apart. He fractured into jagged pieces, like a mirror smashed against a wall. Shards of his self flew as his keening cry echoed off the walls, the sound speaking more of misery than pleasure. 

Then came a long silence, while around him the world slowly rebuilt itself, resolving into focus. The first thing he noted was the hitch of his own irregular breathing. Then he registered the sense of cold creeping back into his limbs, the icy slab of the stone beneath his back. 

Finally able to gather his splintered senses back into some semblance of order, he cracked open dazed eyes and found The Imposter standing above him, gazing down with an expression that seemed an odd mix of triumph, pity and perhaps just a hint of sadness. The magician raised an eyebrow at Arthur’s disheveled appearance, eyeing the tunic pulled askew, the milky spatters upon his trousers and the motley flush of his skin. Shaking his head in disapproval, the sorcerer smoothed invisible wrinkles from his own robes, and tugged lightly at the cuffs of his sleeves, twitching his raiment into perfect alignment. 

“You bastard,” Arthur choked, hating the shattered, piteous quality of his voice. “How dare you! How dare…” 

“I warned you…” the wizard interrupted, his tone casually conversational, as though nothing of import had occurred, “one day, the love in your heart would become corrupted, and decay into hate. That hope would die in you.” The smile that lifted one corner of his mouth looked more like a form of rictus that an expression of amusement. “Your eyes grow dim, Arthur Pendragon. As I told you, you will soon be mine.” 

Then he was gone, melting back into darkness in a swirl of robes, leaving Arthur bereft upon the stone floor. For a moment, he could not find the strength to do anything more than sprawl upon the chilled masonry, shivering with cold and reaction. Distantly, he contemplated the ceiling as The Imposter’s words echoed inside his skull. 

_“…decay into hate.”_

_“…decay into hate.”_

And he felt fresh tears stinging at the corner of his eyes because he recognized the truth in those words. For a moment, he had hated. Hated with a consuming white-hot fury that scorched his soul. But it was not The Imposter he had reviled with such intensity. It was Merlin. Merlin whose foolishness had put them both in this intolerable situation. Merlin who had failed to set everything to rights. Merlin who had promised he would never do anything to harm Arthur or Camelot. Merlin who had betrayed him once again. 

His breath stuttered in his chest as he realized how easily his love for Merlin could curdle into something vile and bitter. Perhaps The Imposter was right. Perhaps he was lost already. Perhaps there was no hope. For the first time, Arthur allowed himself to consider that he might have no choice but to kill the Imposter, or die in the trying. 

Laboriously, he rolled over and struggled, to hands and knees. Allowing his head to hand freely, he paused while the memories of recent events washed over him. He then slowly settled back on his haunches, leaning against the wall with arms curled protectively around the sharp twinge in his chest. He ached all over, and not all of his suffering was physical. A part of him was tempted to crawl into a dark corner of his mind and disappear – the ghost king peering out at him from an inky, rain washed puddle - but that was not the Pendragon way. Instead, like a rock in the center of a rushing river, he let the pain and humiliation flow around him and away. 

Cautiously, he pulled himself to his feet, fingers digging into the uneven stone of the walls as he dragged himself upward towards life. For a moment, he just pressed his forehead against the wall, leaning heavily, as though hoping to draw strength from the solid stones of Camelot herself. He waited for his breath to even out, for the throbbing in his chest to subside, and his limbs to stop trembling. Then making an effort to tidy his appearance, he tucked away his duplicitous flesh and wrestled his wet clothing into place as best he could. He scrubbed the dampness from his face, telling himself it was mostly rainwater dripping from his hair. 

Though he felt he could shatter apart at a mere glance, he was determined no one would see the fine web of cracks running through his soul. To his people he must appear strong and certain. Shoulders back, he carefully put one foot before the other and headed towards the sanctuary of his old rooms. Whatever the future held, Arthur would meet it on his feet, with his head held high. He could do no less for his people, and the memory of the man he loved. 

And perhaps it would be only in memories that he could still love, but for now that love would continue to carry him forward.

For now.

-

#### 

*********

-

Arthur stood at the casement window to his chamber, gazing out as the purple stain of evening crept across the flagstones of the courtyard. He took comfort in the familiar sight, though it had been some time since he had been able to enjoy it. When The Imposter had taken over the Royal Chambers, Arthur had been forced to move back in to his previous rooms. Troubled by his thoughts, he had taken up his erstwhile habit of reflecting while taking in the view. It was not till then that he realized how much he had missed this small indulgence. 

A serving girl scurried across the inner ward, arms full of linens. A raw wind whipped through the courtyard, tossing her russet curls in a wild jumble and playfully tugging at her heavy skirts. Her body was hunched forward, her movements furtive, and as she ran, she glanced over his shoulder frequently, as though fearful of being pursued. 

At any other time, her demeanor would have aroused suspicion, but not now. Now, she seemed no different from all the other skittish servants slinking around the castle. The ones that had not fled, that was. The whole of Camelot seemed to be cowering in the shadow of impending calamity.

Six days. 

They had survived six days under The Imposter’s mad reign, and every morning as the sunrise spread its weak fingers across the land, Arthur wondered if they would survive one more. It couldn’t go on like this, but there seemed no way out. 

The indigo puddles of darkness had made clear headway since he had settled at the casement, and he knew he could tarry no longer. The serving girl was likely headed to help prepare the Great Hall. Tonight, there would be a banquet, and Arthur was required to put in an appearance. The Imposter, having decided he was bored and “wished to be entertained,” had declared a feast in celebration of his ascension and overall magnificence. 

Gathering Arthur and his Round Table Knights, The Imposter had insisted they attend, making it quite clear he would be exceedingly displeased if any of them chose to forgo the festivities. As an outraged Arthur had opened his mouth to protest being forced to fete the man who had usurped this throne, Sagramor had shifted his stance slightly and ground a foot down hard on Arthur’s instep. Gwaine, for his part, had offered a swift kick in the shin, and Leon had nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. Granted, Sir Leon had gone white with horror when his warning jostled Arthur’s broken rib, causing the king to hiss in pain. The mortified knight had been begging forgiveness all afternoon. 

“As you wish,” was all Arthur had managed to choke out around his companions’ painful suggestions to hold his tongue. It was not that Arthur failed to appreciate their protective natures, but the fact that the knights obviously felt they had license to lay hands, feet and elbows upon his kingly person did give him pause. Perhaps he had allowed for too much familiarity among himself and his Round Table companions. 

No doubt, the blame lay with Merlin’s subversive influence. Prior to the arrival of that skinny, peasant boy from Ealdor, everyone had known their station in life, and though they might not have been totally content, at least they had not complained too loudly. Now, Merlin had been appointed court sorcerer, Guinevere, a former maid, was queen, and men of non-noble blood had been granted the rank of knight. 

Arthur’s father would have been appalled, but Arthur himself truly would not have it any other way.

However, that did not mean he enjoyed being kicked in the shins.

He turned from the window and crossed the room to retrieve the mossy-green dress tunic he had chosen. It was clean and sported some detailed stitching in gold thread at the collar and cuffs, but it was certainly not the finest one he owned. The trick was to dress richly enough to avoid insulting The Imposter, but not with such resplendency as to suggest he acknowledged the man’s position as legitimate. It was an exercise in courtly stratagem, subtle tactics in power and politics that he had been learning to negotiate since childhood. Whether The Imposter would understand the unspoken implications was another matter.

There was no one to help Arthur get dressed. The Imposter had appropriated his manservant, and Arthur had refrained from choosing a replacement as he had no wish to put anyone else in harm’s way. The dreadful fate of young Ademar was never far from his thoughts. 

Pendragon pulled the tunic on over his head, moving cautiously as his ribs screamed a warning. His mind retraced a path back to a time when it would have been a fumbling, cheery-faced Merlin helping him tug his clothing into place, likely while babbling on about some inconsequential matters. Such a foolish, trifling memory, but it hurt far worse than Arthur ever could have imagined. 

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, he fought to redirect his spiraling thoughts. He did not have the luxury of indulging in maudlin emotions. There was a feast to attend, and people to protect, if he was able. Though facing The Imposter had grown ever more taxing, especially since the assault of the previous evening, Arthur alone appeared able to temper the wizard’s actions. He owed it to his people to use his influence to shield them as best he could. Why the Imposter seemed to give credence to Pendragon’s word was not certain. Perhaps the dark warlock was merely toying with him, as a cat does a mouse, until such time as Arthur no longer provided suitable entertainment. 

Pendragon held no illusions. He knew the level of magic his former court sorcerer was capable of casting. When The Imposter finally grew bored with their intricate, guarded dance and allowed his claws to fully emerge, Arthur had little chance of survival. Still, he preferred to believe his small influence over the magician was evidence that Merlin’s true nature had not been completely obliterated by whatever evil spell had stolen him away. That he might, in time, regain himself. It was the only hope Arthur had - the only hope any of them had, really.

-

#### 

*********

-

As Arthur crossed the threshold of the Great Hall, he noted that the atmosphere hardly suggested a celebratory feast. Rather than the boisterous, high-spirited chatter and raucous laughter he was accustomed to hearing at such an event, an oppressive miasma of fear and intimidation lay over the room, smothering all light and levity. Nervous, ashen faces turned in his direction expectantly - some waxen and spectral in the lambent glow of the candles, other stretched into ghastly masks of tension and shadow. 

An undercurrent of spidery whispers swept through the crowd, and he caught expressions of relief flittering across many a countenance. He wondered if such looks indicated satisfaction that he still lived. Perhaps they reflected a hope he would somehow save them all from the capricious disposition of the warlock, who was seated at the high table, with his pair of wyvern companions crouched in the far corner of the hall. Arthur could see that some of the tables and chairs had been removed to disguise the fact the attendance was sparse. This was no festive revelry, but rather a thinly veiled farce, a shallow illusion played out to mollify an unstable overlord with the power to destroy them all on a whim. The degradation of it all made Arthur ill to his stomach. 

Making his way towards the high table, he saw Leon rise to his feet and sketch a quick nod in his direction. This acknowledgement was swiftly echoed by Percival, Elyan, Gwaine, Sagramor, and the rest of his closest knights. Gaius also stood, as did a few of his staunchest supporters among the nobility, men who had known him since childhood and had always been close allies with Camelot. They stood proudly, chins lifted and backs straight, as they acknowledged Pendragon’s entrance. All but the corpulent Lord Gaunt, whose ironic name had long been a source of amusement at court; he was hastily yanked back into his seat and scolded by his pinch-faced wife. 

Though the small display of support brought a swell of emotion to Arthur’s throat, it also jolted his heart into a tripping race of alarm. He had not forgotten the fate of unfortunate Sir Borin. 

Glancing swiftly towards the high table, he tried to gauge The Imposter’s reaction to this flagrant defiance. There was no chance that the man would have overlooked the subtle reminder that many considered Arthur the true ruler of Camelot, and The Imposter little more than an illegitimate usurper. Thankfully, from what Arthur could see, the expression on the warlock’s face was one of amusement rather than annoyance. 

“How precious,” the wizard noted, his voice a taunting mix of collusion and innuendo. “Really, Arthur. One does wonder what manner of… favors… you bestow upon your devotees to engender such… loyalty. Too bad our sweet, devoted queen has such pressing matters elsewhere. I am sure she could have enlightened us.” 

The suggestion of impropriety sent a wave of whispers throughout the room, and Sagramor surged to his feet to protest the affront to Guinevere, his hand closing around the pommel of his sword before his wrist was captured in Percival’s placating grip. 

A few seats down from The Imposter, Lady Ceolwyn twittered behind her hand. The sorcerer turned a slow look upon her, his mouth curving into the kind of cunning smile that spoke of predatory interest. “You find that amusing, Lady Ceolwyn?”

  


The dark haired woman looked up in alarm and Arthur braced himself. Lady Ceolwyn and her husband, Lord Eanfrid were not particular favorites of his, having been quite outspoken in their disdain for his choice to take Merlin, a mere servant, as his closest advisor. However, she was a lady, and as such, Arthur was duty bound to defend her.

“Does the thought of Arthur servicing his men titillate you, My Lady?” The Imposter’s tone was dark and seductive. “Well then, it appears you and I do have something in common, my dear.”

Arthur drew in sharp breath. “You will not speak to her like that!” 

“Oh please, Arthur,” the mage sneered, voice dripping distain. “As I recall, you yourself referred to the lady and her pox-marked husband as ‘treacherous serpents’ and worse.” He turned back to Lady Ceolwyn, “Tell me, my dear, how is your husband, Lord Eanfrid? Last I heard, he was confined to the dungeons. Howling at the moon and trying to lick his own bollocks, is he?” 

Lady Ceolwyn grew pale, her fingers clutching restlessly at the high neck of her gown. The Imposter studied her, his head tilted speculatively. “I wonder, do you think that means he’ll want to mount you like a dog?”

“Enough!” Arthur snapped and stormed across the room to stand before the high table. “These people are here, at your request, to celebrate your coronation. Have the decency to show them some respect!”

The Imposters eyes were keen and hard, fixed on him like a honed blade. “And why should I do that?”

Arthur mouth twisted for a moment, struggling not to give vent to his anger, but reining in the volatile Pendragon temperament was a skill he had spent years perfecting. It only took him a moment to calm his demeanor. Bracing his hands on the edge of the table, he leaned forward. “A wise man once told me that the most enlightened kings are servants to the citizens of their realm.” He kept his tone low and personal, projecting a sense of intimacy. “That ultimately, the king bears both the joys and the hardships of his people. How then will being a tyrant to your people bring you anything but misery?” 

That wise man had been Merlin, but any hopes Arthur held that the shared memory would help rekindle some connection between himself and this man who once was both his closest friend and lover, quickly withered under the sorcerer’s mocking glare.

“Perhaps your wise man spent too much time in his cups, for his words are those of an idle-brained fool.”

Arthur’s fingers dug into the table as he struggled to keep his temper from flaring. True, he had called Merlin that and more, but not in earnest, not for years. Such insults had long ago become a form of sport between them, a sign of affection, not derision. To listen to The Imposter slander Merlin’s character while wearing his face was near unendurable.

The Imposter nibbled on a hardboiled egg while he continued to berate Arthur. “Being a tyrant brings me no misery. In fact, I revel in it! What is the point of having power, if you do not make use of it? As king, I can do whatever I wish, and I _wish_ to have a bit of fun with the mewling Lady Ceolwyn and her pustular husband.” He wagged the half-eaten egg Arthur’s face. “Be careful you do not annoy me further, or I may decide I wish to have a bit of fun with you as well!” Then, with a suddenness that left Arthur confounded, the magician’s expression shifted from annoyance to conviviality. Still holding out the egg, he inquired, “Pickled egg? I know you like them.”

In that moment, Arthur could easily have gone over the table with sword drawn but suddenly Gaius was there, acting as mediator, “Sire.” A cautionary hand landed on his shoulder fingers tightening to convey a silent message. _‘Go easy.’_

“Your Majesty.” The elderly physician then nodded towards the warlock, voice soothing, the expression on his time worn features becalming. “This is a night of celebration. Perhaps we could save these discussions for a more suitable occasion? Let us, instead, enjoy this evening.” He tilted his head and smiled at the warlock in an effort to inveigle his interest. “I understand there are some entertainers who wish to honor you with a display of their skills. Will you not invite their performance?”

The diversion appeared to work, for The Imposter brightened noticeable. “Entertainers? Here to perform for me?”

Gaius bowed low. “Indeed, Your Excellency. They merely await your invitation.”

“Well, send them in! Don’t keep my guests waiting any longer.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty. As you request.” Gaius tugged at Arthur’s arm, urging him towards a seat at one end of the high table, while two guards ushered in the first flock of entertainers. Arthur allowed himself to be led, uncertain what else to do. Events lately seemed to have left him turning in futile circles, directionless and crippled, like a dog chasing his own tail. 

A plump, young woman entered, accompanied by and an older man carrying a lyre and a boy with a reedpipe. All three were dressed in clean, but simple clothing. Peasants then, and likely related Arthur surmised from their shared resemblance; wide, thick-lipped mouths and snub noses set in broad, ruddy faces topped by straw-colored hair.

Arthur frowned. The girl looked…familiar. “Haven’t I seen her around?”

“She works in the kitchens,” Gaius murmured, leaning close. At Arthur’s inquisitive look, he shrugged and quirked an eyebrow. “Have you any idea how hard it is to find people willing to perform for dark mage who keeps a pair of wyverns for pets?”

Arthur conceded the point.

The trio arranged themselves before the high table, the girl offering a curtsey while her companions bowed to The Imposter. All three looked flustered, the man smiling nervously, the young woman fidgeting with her dress, and the boy’s hands shaking as he lifted his pipe to his lips. Arthur imagined it was more than performance jitters that had them all twitching. More than once, he saw them glance towards the pair of glowing red eyes in the shadowed, far corner of the room. For their part, the wyverns merely yawned, showing mouths lined with wickedly sharp teeth.

“Get on with it then.” The sorcerer commanded with a flip of his hand, and the trio broke into a rather stumbling version of a popular tavern song. 

The older man was fairly skilled on the lyre, and the girl had a pleasing enough voice, though she was certainly no Lady Helen. (Then again, Arthur mused sardonically, the last time he had encountered Lady Helen, she had not been exactly herself either.) Unfortunately, it was acutely obvious that the boy lacked both the talent and the experience of his companions. His fumbling fingers, sour notes, and poor timing quickly grew wearisome. 

Arthur winced and bit his lip, exchanging a brief glance with Gaius, who was looking increasingly dour. The level of disquiet in the room began to build as most of the guests started worriedly shifting their attention between the hapless trio of performers and the possessed warlock. An undercurrent of whispers arose, and the tension ratcheted up to a point that Arthur was sure the hair on the back of his neck was curling. 

The reaction, when it came, was almost a relief. It was also somewhat anticlimactic. The Imposter merely snapped, “Enough!” and waved a hand while his eyes flashed red. 

The ill-fated singer squeaked into abrupt silence. Eyes round, she raised a hand to her throat, swallowed hard, and let out a loud, sheep-like, “Maaa-aaa-aaah!” 

A hush fell across the room, as the room collectively held their breath. Then, as the hysterical girl tried to give voice to her terror in a series of frantic bleats and bahs, the Imposter smiled in satisfaction. Several of the guests also snickered, overcome by the sudden release of tension. 

Eyes welling with tears, the young woman was ushered quickly from the room by her frantic family, and a pair of grim-faced guards. 

Arthur made a move to stand and challenge this callous mistreatment of the singer, but Gaius’s hand clamped down on his arm with surprising strength for one grown so frail. Pinning Arthur with a sharp gaze, the old physician gave a quelling scowl and shook his head. 

The next act was already entering the room – a gangly youth sporting a conical hat. At his heels trotted a scrappy looking cur adorned with a brightly colored jester’s collar and a red bow, which was tied jauntily around his tail. The dog seemed pleased to be there, tail all a flourish and tongue lolling, but his handler looked even more timorous than the luckless family of musicians. Arthur could hardly blame him considering what had befallen his predecessors.

Leaning closer to Gaius he inquired, “Is he from the kitchens too?”

“No. He works in the Royal Kennels, I believe.”

“The Kennels?” Arthur dubiously scrutinized the mangy mutt bouncing at the boy’s heels. “ _That_ didn’t come from the Royal Kennels.” The idea of any of his proud hunting hounds sporting a ruffled collar was laughable.

The boy led his dog to the center to the room where he encouraged his canine companion to perform a variety of amusing antics. The audience watched apprehensively, attention wavering between the duo and the wizard while the pup proceeded to shake hands, roll over, crawl, take a bow, and walk on his hind legs. Polite, if somewhat sparse applause accompanied each trick, and slowly the youth began to relax, grinning and praising his dog. The pooch whipped his tail through the air in delight while eagerly completing one caper after another. 

However, Arthur could see The Imposter did not seem to share the audience’s enjoyment.

“Does she fly?” the warlock finally inquired, fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. 

The lad glanced up in surprise. “Your Majesty?”

“Does… she… fly?” The Imposter repeated slowly, as though addressing someone rather dim.

“Fly? Naw, Sire.” The boy looked a bit befuddled at the question. “She canna fly.”

Arthur kept a leery eye on the exchange. Just what was the sorcerer playing at? 

“Can she turn into a dragon, then? Breathe fire and such?”

The youth blanched. “Naw, Your Grace. No fire, just wee tricks.”

“Can she talk?”

At this, the boy brightened. “Aye, Sire! She kens how ta speak!” He called the mongrel to attention by snapping his fingers. “Issa. These good folk wanna hear you talk. Speak, Issa! Speak!”

The dog sat obediently at the boy’s feet, tail thumping on the floor as she let out a few sharp yips in response to the command. 

Beaming, the youth slipped the mutt a treat from his pocket. “Aye, that’s a good lassie.”

The wizard looked decidedly unimpressed. “Is that the best you can do?”

The boy’s smile faltered. “Sire?”

“You said she could talk. All I heard was some rather unremarkable barking.”

Arthur watched the lad’s eyes flicker around the room, seeking a route of escape, conflict written clearly across his face. Was the magician teasing him, or was he honestly confused? Cautiously he ventured, “She’s a dog, Your Majesty. That’s how dogs talk.”

“Hmmm.” The Imposter dipped a finger into the wine in his chalice and sucked it clean, demeanor dismissive. “Cannot fly. Cannot breathe fire. Cannot talk. Not very useful then, is she?”

Arthur recognized the stubborn gleam in the boy’s eyes and the hardening of his jaw - recognized it from his own youth when confronting his father, recognized it from the practice field when facing many a young squire with hopes of winning a knighthood, recognized it from memories of a presumptuous manservant whose existence seemed to fade ever more distant each passing day. 

‘Don’t!’ he wanted to shout at the boy in warning.

“She’s a good lassie, she is!” the boy declared, hand tangled protectively in the dog’s shaggy fur. “She’s my friend!”

The warlock froze, all suggestions of nonchalance gone as he fixed his attention on the youth. “Is she? Well, that really is too bad you see, because my pets _can_ fly, and they are very hungry…” He turned and shouted something guttural at the two wyverns lurking in the far corner. 

Snarling, the beasts rose to their feet and raced towards the boy and his dog. Crouched low, their tails lashing, they moved surprisingly fast and Arthur had barely gained his feet before the beasts fell upon the unfortunate mongrel. The boy shrieked and struck out at the wyverns, trying to rescue his dog from the predators. He was restrained by a quick thinking guard who swiftly pulled the boy away from the fray.

The dog yelped and whined in distress as it was caught under the powerful claws of the wyverns. The cries turned to blood-chilling howls as one of the large lizards held her down and tore away a hind limb. While the one creature retreated with its prize, the other tossed the mangled dog into the air and caught it in powerful jaws. The dog’s piteous cries finally went silent as the beast bit down with a sickening crunch of bone and flesh. 

The youth continued to wail as he was dragged from the room. A serving girl shrieked hysterically as she too was bustled away by twittering servants. Aside from the wet gnawing sounds of the predators devouring their prey and some soft weeping from ladies of the court, the room had plunged into shocked stillness. 

“Seems only fair.” The Imposter noted, his unperturbed comment cutting through the dazed hush. “It is a feast after all, and everyone else is eating. Why shouldn’t my lovelies get a little snack?”

Arthur found himself breathing hard, as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. At some point, he had drawn his sword, though he did not remember doing so. He held it loosely and without purpose. Anger and outrage welled in his chest, but the boiling emotions seemed distant, almost as though they belonged to someone else. Instead, what he felt most intimately was a piercing cold – a painful chill that crept through his heart and mind like spreading fingers of bitter, winter rime. 

Despite all the torment that had come before, somehow it was this one simple, brutal act that changed everything for Arthur. Until now, faith had still bided in his heart, a lone candle flickering against the gloom - a shimmer of hope that somehow his beloved Merlin still existed beneath The Imposter’s baleful machinations. This moment snuffed out that small flame, leaving him drowning in darkness. Arthur could deny it no longer. His friend, the lover and confidant he had cherished, was gone, destroyed when he had opened that evil box. All that remained to Arthur now was to destroy the vile creature who had stolen his Merlin away. 

He felt the calculating gaze of The Imposter upon him, gauging and assessing, trying to determine what Arthur intended. And in that instant, overwhelmed by choking despair, Arthur could easily have thrown himself into a confrontation against the most powerful sorcerer in an age armed with nothing more than his grief and Excalibur. 

Thankfully, others were present who took steps to reign in his suicidal impulses.

The grip around his wrist forced his sword arm down and drew him back from the brink. He blinked, sucked in a sharp breath, and turned to find someone at his side, a blur of color and motion, a brush of warmth against his body. A mouth moved. Words scraped against his awareness. Meaningless at first. He blinked again, and saw it was Gwaine. Gwaine growling his name, pressed close and intimate, mouth flat, eyes uncharacteristically bruised. “Arthur.” The fingers clasping his arm tightened, gave him a brusque shake. “Hey. I know you’re hurt and you want to stop that hurt, but I really need you to think right now.” A small twitch tugged at side of the mobile mouth, as though he simply could not hold the grim expression. “So don’t be a prat.”

Arthur blinked again, more rapidly this time and made a small choked sound, not unlike the pained sob of someone who had felt the kiss of a dagger slip beneath his ribs. That was rather how he felt, as though his blood was slowly draining away, stealing life and heat, and leaving only barren frost

“You know we will follow your lead,” Gwaine continued in a low murmur, looking worn in ways it pained Arthur to see. Gwaine should never look so haggard. It was not right. “But if you take him on now, with all these people here, he will use them against us and it will likely be a nasty, messy business. Do you want that?”

Did he want that? 

No, of course he did not want that. 

Taking a deep breath, he drew his tattered sense of duty close around him and flicked a glance at Gwaine, letting him know he had heard and understood. Gwaine’s grasp on his arm relaxed, then tightened once more in a quick clinch of support before he pulled away. 

“Sire,” Gaius again, at his elbow, looking pinched, and white lipped. “We all appreciate your efforts to protect us from the wyverns.” His words were pitched far too loud for a personal conversation, and at first, Arthur was confused. Then he realized Gaius had done so deliberately, intending his comments to carry. “But I am certain Lord Merlin will make sure his guests come to no harm from the creatures.” Gaius gestured at the sword, and lifted one eyebrow meaningfully. “So I am sure you can put away your weapon now.” 

Right. Brandishing a sword could certainly be construed as a threat by The Imposter. Quickly, Arthur assessed the status of the wyverns. The beasts had retreated with their meal, leaving a wet, bloody slick trailing into the far corner of the room. He could hear them snarling at each other as they tore at the flesh of their prey, but they seemed well occupied. He slid Excalibur back into his scabbard with practiced ease, and nodded to Gaius, hoping the older man understood his unspoken appreciation. 

The healer’s manner and voice both softened. “Won’t you come join me again at the table?” 

Arthur began to demur, to say he needed to leave, that he simply could take no more of this travesty, but something in Gaius’s countenance made him pause. There was an intensity in the old man’s gaze and a tension in his frame, a silent plea. Gaius was trying to tell him something, something vital, and though he had no idea what the message might be, Arthur decided to trust in the venerable physician. “Yes. Yes I will.” 

He moved slowly back to his seat, feeling The Imposter’s measuring stare following his every move. He did not dare return the look, knowing the shock of loss and mourning would be written far too clearly upon his features. Once the sorcerer realized that Arthur had abandoned hope, his triumph would be complete. He would also know that Arthur must move against him. Neither revelation was something Arthur was willing to divulge just yet. 

Lowering himself into his chair, he carefully kept his eyes averted from the warlock and focused upon the food platters set before him. However, that proved a poor choice, as the slab of meat swimming in pink juices upon the trencher made his stomach churn unpleasantly. He pushed it away, with no intention of eating anything more.

Around him, the rest of the guests had retreated into grim, fretful silence. Like children afraid of monsters lurking under the bed, they feared to draw any attention to themselves and sat staring down as their fingers restlessly fiddled with their food or twitched, like dying insects, in their laps. 

“Are there any more entertainers?” Arthur inquired of Gaius, half hoping for some form of diversion and half dreading what might result.

“I believe there are some jugglers and tumblers who wish to perform.”

“Jugglers and tumblers.” Arthur could well envision the potential for disaster. “And are they from the kitchens or the kennels?”

“No, no. Not at all. I believe juggling is a fancy for the sons of the Master Falconer. His daughters tumble, or so I am told.”

“Aldwin’s family?” Arthur was a bit dumbfounded by this news. True the Royal Falconer had a large family, but Arthur had never realized they were anything but menial workers. Just how much amateur talent resided within the walls of Camelot anyway?

“Are they any good?”

“Good enough to keep from being eaten by hungry wyverns, you mean?” Gaius demeanor expression was bleak. “Let us hope so.”

Arthur’s father, King Uther, had never been particularly fond of gamehawking, claiming he had never met a bird that could take down a boar or a good-sized stag so he did not really see the point. Arthur however, had found he enjoyed afternoons spent away from the castle, hawking in the company of Merlin, Gwen, and a few close companions. It gave him time to think without the distractions at court, and sometimes provided an excuse to forget, just for a while, who they were and all the duties awaiting them. 

Then there might be a laughter-filled frolic through the fields or chase and tag amongst the trees. He and Merlin could toss leaves in Gwen’s hair and run away while she scolded, or wade with the knights in the cold waters of a stream while she sat on the bank and braided garlands of flowers to adorn their heads. He still recalled the one time they had neglected to remove the wilting crowns and their little party had all ridden into Camelot with flowers in their hair. That had been the source of a great deal of good-natured teasing amongst the knights. 

Perhaps these outings did not bag them any quarry quite as impressive as wild boar, but Arthur cherished them never the less. And if the game was not needed at the high table, there were always families in the lower town grateful for a meal of duck or hare.

So Arthur watched uneasily as the guards ushered in the Master Falconer and his family. He was fond of Aldwin and valued his expertise with the birds. He certainly did not wish them any harm, but he was not sure how much he could protect the man or his children. He certainly had not done much good for the scullion from the kitchens or the kennel lad.

“Aldwin, Master Falconer, and his family will now perform for your pleasure,” announced the herald with a flourish Arthur felt was in poor taste, considering the events of the evening.

Aldwin swept into the center of the room, a tall, gaunt figure trailed by his equally rawboned children - all raven haired, all lanky, all possessing the same quiet, focus as their father - as different from the plump, ruddy family of the kitchen girl as night from day. Arthur caught Aldwin’s eye as the falconer took his position, and in that stricken, dark-eyed glance, Arthur saw the man was fully aware of his precarious position. The Master Falconer had always been fond of Merlin, and perhaps had agreed to perform without fully understanding how the situation had changed. However, he surely would have learned the fate that had befallen his fellow entertainers. 

Arthur ached. Perhaps if he just closed his eyes and wished it all away, nothing bad would happen. Perhaps he would wake up in his bed and all of this would have been a dream. Perhaps the sky would drip honey, the moon would sing him to sleep, and all of Albion would pledge itself to Arthur without a drop of blood being spilt.

Perhaps…

Aldwin’s three daughters had just launched into a series of cartwheels and walkovers when Arthur noticed young Malachias bursting into the room with a large wooden box in his hands. He scuttled quickly across the floor towards Arthur and Gaius, the wide, false smile plastered on his face doing nothing to disguise that he was, in fact, terrified.

“It came!” he squeaked loudly, holding the box out like an offering. “The delivery you have been waiting for! I opened it to check and brought it just like you said!”

Arthur cursed under his breath and glanced swiftly towards the high table, hoping that the interruption might have slipped The Imposter’s notice. What was the boy thinking, coming here? Both he and Gaius had warned him repeatedly to avoid the warlock. To his surprise, Gaius did not immediately shush Malachias and send him on his way, but rather thanked him conspicuously while taking the box and dropping it down on the table with an emphatic thump.

Any wish that the sorcerer might have overlooked the situation was quickly extinguished as the attention of the entire high table swiveled in their direction. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur muttered under his breath, his esteem for the old physician the only thing keeping him from giving the man a sharp thwack on the back of the head.

The swift glance Gaius shot him was such a befuddling mix of apology, dread, and determination that Arthur had no idea what to make of it. However, it was certainly not the look of a man caught off guard. Gaius was up to something - something Arthur knew nothing about, and that was a disturbing on more than one level.

“And what is that?” The Imposter’s voice echoed across the chamber, cutting short the silent exchange between them. 

“This?” Gaius tutted, looking flustered. “Oh, nothing really. Just a delivery from a fellow physician with whom I share an occasional correspondence.” He shrugged, smiled thinly, and made an attempt to hand the box back to Malachias.

The Imposter leaned further forward in his chair, interest peaked. “What sort of delivery?”

Gaius froze, and turned slowly towards The Imposter. Was his fleeting expression of guilt genuine or artifice? Arthur could not be certain. “Ah… just wine, your majesty. My fellow physician lives in Byzantium, you see. He offered to send me a bottle of some rather rare wine made from the Muscat grapes that grow on the Isle of Crete.” Gaius prattled on, shifting his attention to Arthur. “It was meant to be a coronation gift for you, Sire, but… well as you can see it took a rather long time to arrive. Indeed, I had given up hope of it ever getting here at all.” 

Arthur dredged up a smile. “I appreciate the sentiment, Gaius.”

The physician patted the box. “Well, I suppose we can still enjoy it, even if it is a bit late.”

“Late?” The wizard stood, his full-length cloak swirling around him. “Not at all. In fact, it has arrived just in time! After all,” he spread his arms wide to encompass the large chamber, “is this not a celebration in honor of _my_ coronation? Come Gaius, bring the bottle, and fill my goblet. I have a desire to taste your rare wine.”

Gaius balked. “But… Your Majesty. It was meant for Arthur.”

The Imposter’s gaze grew sharp. “It was meant for the King of Camelot, was it not? Am I not king?”

“Well, yes. Of course. But…”

“Then I fail to see the difficulty.” He beckoned Gaius with an imperious hand. “Pour me some wine, Physician. I grow weary of your half-witted babbling.”

“It’s all right Gaius,” Arthur offered quickly, to appease the magician and keep him from growing more agitated. “Merlin is welcome to the wine. As he said, this feast is held in his honor.”

“Yes, Your Grace. As you wish.” Although he faced The Imposter, as he spoke, Gaius’s sidelong nod towards Arthur made it clear it was Pendragon’s word that held sway. The elderly physician unlatched the box and removed something from the packing straw. As he carefully unwound the layers of wrapping cloths, it was revealed he held a sealed glass amphora. 

Arthur used his dagger to pry open the stopper. The sweet, floral aroma of the wine did indeed hold promise. Ignoring an aborted protest from Gaius, Arthur himself rose to carry the amphora to the sorcerer. It was only as he was steps away from the man that he realized he still carried the unsheathed dagger. It was unlike him to be unaware of a weapon at hand, to be so lost in the labyrinth of his own thought that he missed the implications. Had he intended this on some elemental level? Were his instincts of a warrior already one step ahead, able to react when the rest of him was only beginning to wake up the realities of what must be done?

As Arthur lifted his gaze to meet the depthless black eyes of the monster who had destroyed his lover and friend, thoughts skittered wildly through his mind like autumn leaves stirred by the wind. How easy would it be to step in close and strike? Did The Imposter perhaps already know the direction of Arthur’s deliberations, and were those dark eyes and that enigmatic smile mocking his hesitation? Who else would suffer if he tried and failed? 

And what if he tried and succeeded? Could he live with that? Could he live with the sharp grunt of pain on his former lover’s lips as he slipped the dagger between the ribs and sought to pierce the heart that he had loved to hear beating beneath him as they lay together? Could he live with the gurgle of surprise as he slashed the blade across the vulnerable throat, parting the pale flesh he had once nipped and kissed? 

If not, he was defeated before he even began.

There was a moment - just a single moment - when he could have acted against the dark mage. Then the moment was past, and those too knowing eyes were fixated upon his every move. Arthur was left twisting upon the thorns his own equivocation. 

Shaken, he focused upon steadying the chalice as he poured. His fingers softly brushed those of The Imposter where they both clasped the cup. The fingers felt cold beneath his own. As the cherry red wine splashed into the goblet, a few drops escaped, landing on The Imposter’s hand. Arthur’s eyes followed as the warlock lifted his fingers to his lips, licking his skin clean with a swipe of this tongue. 

“Thank you, Arthur,” the sorcerer purred, and Arthur twitched. He was clearly being baited, but he could not help but respond, body, and mind, to the smoky timber of The Imposter’s voice. It was a tone he knew intimately, and it elicited reactions he had tried to bury deep. Placing the amphora on the table with exaggerated care, he hastily retreated, shoulders back, spine straight, fighting hard for composure as he returned to Gaius’s side. 

The elderly physician’s face was creased with concern. “Arthur?” 

Arthur was in no mood to discuss the turmoil in his mind, certainly not here and now, and certainly not with a man who had known him since he had arrived, a squalling, wet newborn, into the world. “I’m fine,” he snapped, lowering himself stiffly into his seat. 

The Imposter took a large gulp of wine, paused thoughtfully, and then toasted Gaius with his goblet. “My compliments to your physician friend, Gaius. This is indeed a palatable wine.” He took another deep swallow. “Fit for a king, I would venture!” 

The old man nodded and smiled blandly. “Yes, Sire. I am glad it meets your approval.”

Malachias was crouched on the floor at Gaius’s feet, hidden from The Imposter’s view, his eyes wide pools of darkness, his face a pale smudge in the shadows beneath the table. One slender hand crept out to tug at the healer’s robes. “Did I do well?” the boy asked, voice a trembling thread in need of reassurance. 

“Yes. Yes.” Gaius whispered, surreptitiously snatching a honey roll off a platter and slipping it into the small fist. “Now hush, and stay still.”

Arthur noted the exchange through narrowed eyes. Once again, he had the distinct impression he was missing something vital. “Gaius?” he hissed, but the older man turned determinedly away, loudly remarking upon the talents of Aldwin’s daughters with someone further down the table.

The subdued guests offered little more than tepid applause as Aldwin and his children proceeded to juggle some painted wooden balls alone or with partners. A few balls escaped and went rolling across the floor, but otherwise things remained relatively uneventful until The Imposter suddenly lurched to his feet, staring in dismay at the chalice in his hand. “Gaius!” he yelped. “What have you done?” 

Gaius straightened, took a deep breath, and rose slowly out of his seat. His face was set in lines of regret as the turned to the wizard, but his lifted chin spoke of resolution and purpose. “Only what I had to.” 

The Imposter reeled on his feet, and gave a short aborted laugh. “You cunning, old fox. I should never have trusted you!” He blinked and staggered, attitude shifting from astonished to unnerved. One flailing hand sought out and grasped a nearby chair to steady himself. Wine sloshed from his half-empty goblet to splash down the front of his tunic. Folding forward, he panted hard, and Arthur watched his fingers tighten white on the intricately carved scrollwork of the chair back. “So what is it, old man?” The dark head came up, and Arthur saw a flicker of distress pass over the features. “Hemlock? Deadly nightshade, or maybe wolfsbane? What poison did your use?” He pushed himself straight and wobbled away from the chair, intent upon the elderly physician. “Dear Gaius. Like a father to me. Isn’t that what you always said? That I was son you never had?” 

Gaius’s face had drained white. Arthur saw his lower lip tremble, but he gave no ground. 

“Do you really think this will stop me?” The sorcerer rasped. “I will have you quartered, you foolish, old toad. I will mount your grizzled, flea-bitten head on a pike and set it upon the castle walls.” He faltered in his steps, stumbled, and careened sideways into the table. Dishes and platters rattles and guests screamed. Pendragon sensed more than saw his knights rising stealthfully to their feet throughout the room.

The Imposter straightened again, stretching a hand towards Gaius, fingers splayed. 

Arthur swiftly stepped in front of Gaius, placing himself between the wrathful wizard and his target. He heard and ignored the other man’s querulous cry of protest. Holding out his arm, he trapped the aged physician behind his back, out of harm’s way.

However, the warlock was unable to call forth whatever spell he intended. His words slurred and ran together in a muddled, impotent stream of gibberish. For a moment, he stood swaying, and Arthur could feel every breath catch throughout the room, held in an instant that seemed to stretch an eternity. Then the chalice slowly slipped free - sliding from The Imposter’s fingers and tumbling through the air – catching the light in graceful arcs of silver and flashes of brilliant colored gemstones - wine spilling like blood from an open wound.

Arthur saw a look pass over the familiar planes of the long face, one he had never seen touch The Imposter, but recognized nevertheless. It was fear, and it tore through Pendragon like a crossbow bolt. He could not hold back the cry that slipped passed his lips as the magician wilted to the floor.

“Merlin!”

In three long strides he was at the fallen wizard’s side, hand out and hovering, longing to touch - to connect - but held back by the shackles of indecision .

In a puddle of wine, the silver chalice rocked back and forth beside The Imposter’s outstretched hand and Arthur grimaced, consumed in a flare of pain as he was thrown back to another time - another feast - and Merlin lying crumpled upon the cold stone after drinking from a poison laced goblet in an effort to save Arthur’s life. 

“It worked.”

The words, shaky with disbelief, centered him, once again, in the present. He glanced over his shoulder to see Gaius, haggard and fretful, shuffling closer.

“I wasn’t sure… He’s not easy to trick you know. He’s always been much cleverer than you might think.”

Gaius…” Arthur knew that blanched, waxen look all too well. He had seen in numerous times on the practice field and in battle. He only just had time to push to his feet and grab Gaius before the elderly man’s legs gave out. 

Suddenly, Leon was there, and together they eased the trembling physician into a chair. Arthur noticed the rest of the Round Table Knights had also gathered, forming a loose ring around the fallen sorcerer. Behind them, red-cloaked Camelot knights and several guards shuffled uneasily. 

As the full import of the words Gaius had spoken sunk in, Arthur glanced down at The Imposter, then across the room to where the wyverns were beginning to snarl and grumble, nipping at each other in agitation. “Sagramor,” Pendragon snapped, addressing the stout, laconic knight. Take some of the men, and kill those wretched beasts! And the rest of you,” he eyed the milling knot of men at arms. “Get everyone out. Quickly!” 

Sagramor’s blue eyes lit with excitement, and his teeth flashed white from the tangle of his beard. “Sounds like a grand time!” he growled, then started shouting for men to join him. 

Malachias was staring, wide eyed, at the stricken mage. Arthur put a hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder, feeling the knob of bone beneath his touch. “Malachias.” He shook the boy gently. “I need you to take care of Gaius for me. Understood?”

“Is he dead?” Malachias whispered, small, pink tongue darting out to dab at cracked lips.

“Neh. He’s still breathing.” Gwaine voice was a rough and frayed. He crouched at the wizard’s side, features drawn and ghastly in the low light, as if he been gutted and left for dead. 

Arthur wondered how he looked. Was he also carrying his anguish around for all to see?

He started to rise, to move away, but weak fingers caught at his sleeve, latched on, and would not let go. He glanced down into Gaius’s harrowed face. “I had to…” the hoary old man said, a thin thread of sound. “He had to be stopped.”

“I know,” Arthur covered the age twisted fingers with his own, a pain curling in his chest as though his heart were rupturing. It surprised him. He would have thought it already shattered beyond all chance of feeling. “I know. It’s all right Gaius.” But, of course, it was not all right, and never would be again.

“I couldn’t tell you. I am sorry… the danger was too great. If I failed, I didn’t want the blame to fall on anyone but me. I had to protect you.”

Arthur’s eyes drifted closed for a moment. In his mind, he saw Merlin’s bright eyes and laughing mouth framed by those ridiculous ears. Somewhere, far off, he caught the sounds of battle, the snarls and screams of the wyverns and the shouts of his men, but, this once, he set it aside. He must trust Camelot’s defenders to do their job without him this time.

“Just tell me,” he breathed, the words falling from his lips broken and traitorous - words he did not wish to speak, for speaking them gave them life and power and made them real. “The poison you used. Tell me he will not suffer. That he… that it will be painless.”

“Poison?” The shocked, sputtering tone brought Arthur’s head up with a snap. “I didn’t use poison. Just a strong sleeping draught made from extract of valerian and poppy.” Gaius shook his head, clearly flustered. “Poison? Goodness no.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Arthur hastened to reassure him. “I’m sorry. I should have realized. I know your how much you care for Merlin…”

“It’s not that,” grumbled Gaius, irritably, as though Arthur were some particularly dull-witted child. “To save you and Camelot, I most certainly could and would have. Merlin would have been the first to insist upon it.” He shook his head, leaning back in the chair, pale and strained. “But, I couldn’t risk it. What if he hadn’t drunk it and you had?” He blinked up at Arthur owlishly, “Or insisted you share it with him?”

“Ah… Yes, I see.” Arthur flushed, humbled by Gaius’s high regard and the sacrifices he was apparently willing to make. “So not poison then.” 

Gaius struggled to push himself to his feet. “I should see to him. Check his breathing. I… I’m not sure how much of the potion he drank…” He swayed, and stumbled heavily against Malachias. “Oh… still a bit dizzy.”

“Gaius, sit down before you collapse,” the king insisted, pressing the man down with a hand to the shoulder. “Malachias, you are to keep him from exerting himself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sire,” the scrawny boy nodded, urging the elderly physician back into the chair. 

Arthur let his head tip back, staring unseeing at the ornately carved ceiling. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he took a deep breath and let himself glorify in the burst of relief that spread outward from his center. _Not poison!_ No wicked venom milked from a serpent’s fang or sucked from a Serket’s tail to steal away breath and still a heart.

But the blaze of exhilaration was swiftly doused by Gwaine who ran a tired hand across his heavily stubbled jaw and noted with sardonic detachment, “Well, then we still have a very big problem.”

Wounded and wanting to lash out, Arthur shot him a scalding glare. Silently, he willed Gwaine to swallow back the words and all they entailed.

Gwaine flinched under the fierce look, but held his ground, like the well-trained fighter he was. “He may be asleep now, but eventually, he will wake up, and then we’ll be up to our arse cracks in shit again, won’t we?” 

His words sounded torn and brittle, his face scrunched in misery, half hidden by a dark fall of grimy hair. The fact he had allowed his personal grooming to sink to such levels of dishabille spoke clearly of his troubled state of mind. Arthur found he could not sustain the heat of his anger in face of such obvious dejection. Instead, he moved to join Gwaine beside The Imposter.

No.

Beside _Merlin…_

…for Pendragon could read no threat in the slender figure, sprawled upon the stone, face slack, lips slightly parted, dark lashes lying in fragile crescents against pale skin. Seeing him lying unguarded and rendered helpless, Arthur could not silence the name that rose unbidden in his mind. _‘Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.’_

He clenched his fists and tamped down on the desire to give in to the comfort of such thoughts. He must not weaken. Indeed, now was the time he must be the most resolute, the most unmoved, if he was to have any hope of doing what must be done to save them all. 

“You’re right,” he said softly to Gwaine, letting him know he did not blame him for the truth that had to be spoken, no matter how grievous. “We have no way to fight him - no sorcerer who can counter his powers. It is only a matter of time before we no longer amuse him and he destroys us all, enslaving the people of Camelot to his will. He… we can’t let him wake up.”

“What do we do then?” asked Percival, looking down at Arthur with unshakable trust upon his square, open face. “How do we stop him?”

At his side, Elyan bit his lip hard and stared at the floor. 

“We do what we must,” Arthur grated, the words like ground glass in his mouth. His hand strayed to the pommel of his sword, and then jerked away. No. Not Excalibur. Not for this. The sword would forever carry the taint of this moment, and he could never draw it again without reliving the remorse and despair. Instead, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and turned it in his hand, watching a sliver of his reflection shimmer along the blade. Strangely, he felt almost as though he were gazing at his true self, a shattered soul, fragmented and lost without Merlin beside him. 

The dagger was a fine weapon, given to him by his father in celebration of his thirteenth naming day. He would regret its loss, for he would never use it again, but its forfeiture would seem but the prick of a pin in light of the greater sacrifice he must endure. 

“No.” Gwaine’s fingers closed about his wrist and Arthur looked into troubled brown eyes, brimming with sympathy. “It doesn’t have to be you. Let one of us carry this burden.”

“Yes, echoed Leon, mouth down turned and as sorrowful as Arthur had ever seen him.

Percival and Elyan also nodded. 

“Let it be one of us,” Elyan offered quietly.

Arthur wanted to weep.

For them.

For himself.

For Merlin. 

It was not right, that this be asked of them. 

“Which one of you?” he asked, voice catching, throat aching. “Which one of you should I ask to do this for my sake? You all call him friend. Which of you should I curse with this act?” 

Leon spoke, voice tender, the same gentling tone Arthur had heard him use to calm his horse or hush a crying child. “You know any one of us would do it to spare you. He would want that.”

Arthur swallowed sharply. “No. This is mine to do. My choice. My duty.” _‘My pain,’_ he thought. He owed Merlin this, to embrace this moment and bear it upon his shoulders for the remainder of his life.

“All right, you stubborn pignut.” Gwaine’s voice sounded suspiciously watery. “But at least take this.” He held out his own blade, keen edged and clean, but not nearly as ornate as Arthur’s dagger. “Merlin…” and his voice threaded with cracks. “Merlin told me your father gave you yours as a gift. This, I won in a dice game. No great loss to anyone if you ditch it.”

The small gesture finally broke Arthur’s control and he could no longer hold back the tears that spilled down his cheeks. Gazing up at the gathered knights, at Leon, Percival, and Elyan, he found he was not alone. Not a one could boast a dry eye. “Please, turn around,” he asked, for their sake as much as his own. “I’d rather you didn’t watch.” 

Being typically irksome, Gwaine refused to turn away. “I’ll stay,” he said simply, petting a hand lightly though Merlin’s hair. When Arthur made to protest, he cut Pendragon off with a sharp shake of his head. “You need me to. You don’t know it yet, but you will. When the nightmares come crawling, you’ll need someone to talk to.” He shrugged. “I’ll do, I suppose.”

“What about your nightmares?” 

Gwaine’s answer was a mere shadow of his usual grin. “That’s what mead is for, isn’t it?”

Arthur considered for a long moment, then nodded. Even if he truly wanted to fight Gwaine on this, he was not sure he had the strength.

He felt as though a lifetime of memories were spilling through his mind. He had not known of Merlin for much of his life, and yet, now he could not imagine an existence without the man’s irrepressible charm. The years ahead, stretched long and leaden. 

Gwaine’s dagger lay heavy in his hand. More than mere metal, it was weighted by sorrow and torment, laden with obligation and conscience. It felt ungainly in his grip and he wanted nothing more than to toss is aside. It hovered in the air above Merlin’s chest as Arthur gazed at it, feeling detached. Perhaps that was a blessing of sorts, this disengagement. This feeling of being removed from the fist that held the blade - the hand that would end Merlin’s life. Perhaps, in the future he would find he could shed the guilt by simply chopping off that hand. At the moment, the prospect did not seem such a terrible thing. 

Arthur pressed his other hand to Merlin’s chest, feeling the thrum of a heartbeat under his palm. _‘Here we are again,’_ he thought, gazing down at the familiar, lax features. Once again, he faced a choice. Cut the long, white throat? Pierce the beating heart? Which would cause less pain? Less suffering? It was a question for which no living person could have an answer. 

Leaning forward, he captured the open lips with his own, not caring that Gwaine would see… would know. It hardly mattered now. Merlin’s breath mingled with Arthur’s own. His mouth, velvet soft, tasted of wine, and offered an inviting haven. For just a moment, Arthur lost himself in the sweet taste and silken warmth. 

But a moment was all he was allowed.

Drawing back, he left Merlin’s skin damp with the traces of his own tears. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I wish… I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

Near at hand, someone trying to swallow back his sobs, and doing a rather pitiful job of it. Pendragon did not know who it was. Did not really care. He, himself, had sunk beyond tears, somewhere deep within where no light shone. 

“Arthur…”

Where no breath stirred.

“Sire…”

Where no pain could ever reach.

“Sire, listen to me!”

The voice was an intrusion. He tried to shut it out.

“There may be another way.”

Someone snatched his hand. He pulled back, tried to break free as fingers pried the dagger from his grip. A fist punched him hard in the shoulder. And he snapped back into his surroundings with a gasp. 

“Arthur!” It was Gwaine, peering hard into his face. “Did you hear what Gaius said?” 

“Gaius?”

“Sire.” The exhausted physician was standing beside them, most of his weight supported by young Malachias.

“I tried to make ‘im rest, Sire. I did. But he wouldn’t listen!” The boy’s eyes darted fretfully from Gaius to Pendragon, looking as though he feared he would be fed to the wyverns.

Pendragon shook with the aftermath of emotion. He felt like screaming, like curling up in a ball and willing to world away for a while, until he could regain his footing. “What is it?” he snapped. He had finally achieved the state of mind that would allow him to do what needed to be done, and they had yanked him back!

“I’m sorry, Sire.” Gaius seemed to understand, judging by the remorse on his face and the way he kept ringing his gnarled, old hands. “But I thought you should know there may be another way to render Merlin powerless.”

Arthur held himself completely still. If he moved, he felt he might fly apart. He drew several breaths, counting slowly, as Morgana had taught him years ago, and then cracked his head to the side, releasing his neck. He was going to have a massive headache shortly, he could tell. “Another way?” His tongue flicked across his lips, lending them moisture as he rose to his feet. “What are you talking about?” The calm cadence of his words was a triumph of which only he was aware.

“By the time you were old enough to understand Uther’s ban on magic, most of the powerful magic users had already fled, or been executed,” Gaius explained earnestly. “Those you saw captured were generally poor souls with a few conjuring tricks. No great threat to anyone, really, other than in Uther’s mind. But…” he paused for emphasis, “… at the beginning of the Great Purge, there were many who followed the Old Religion living right here in Camelot. And not all of them were willing to leave their families and homes. Some of them fought back.” He seemed to drift for a moment, eyes haunted as he remembered past atrocities. “It was a terrible time.”

“Gaius, please…” Pendragon strove for patience. “What does this have to do with Merlin?”

The physician blinked, pulling himself back to the present. “I’m sorry. It was such a long time ago, you see. And my mind does tend to wander these days.” He rubbed a tired hand across his eyes. “As the years pass, it seems sometimes that the past is clearer to me than the present.” He frowned for a moment, seeming to search his mind for his train of thought, and then visibly roused when he found it. “Yes. When those first sorcerers were arrested, there was no way to hold them. They were far too powerful to just toss in a cell. They could easily magic their way out. So your father commissioned a special metal choker, a magical suppression collar. I believe the sorcerer who fashioned it thought doing so would keep him in Uther’s good graces and assure his safety.” He worked his lower lip and stared at the ceiling, searching his memory. “His name was Istan… Isftan… Istvan… something like that…”

“Gaius!” Whatever patience Arthur had was rapidly eroding. 

“Sorry, Sire. Anyway, Istvan was the first magic user upon which Uther had the collar tested. It worked and the Istvan was burned on the pyre.”

Finally, they were getting somewhere. “This choker. You believe it still exists?”

“I have no reason to think otherwise, but Uther hadn’t mentioned it in years.”

Arthur frowned. “He never said anything to me about it. Where would he have kept it?”

“Somewhere in the vaults, I imagine. That is where he locked away most of the relics of the Old Religion.”

“Would you know it if you saw it, Gaius?”

Gaius considered. “It has been a long time, but I believe so, yes.” 

Between one breath and the next, Arthur shifted from grieving lover to military strategist. “Sir Sagramor” he called, summoning the knight and those who had fought with him against the wyverns. 

The newest of the Round Table Knights hurried over, and bowed. “The beasts are dead, Your Majesty.”

“Good. I have another task for you and your men. You must go with Sir Leon.” Arthur turned to Leon, grasping him urgently by the shoulder. “Take Sagramor and as many knights and guards as you can gather. Get down to the vaults… and… find… that… collar!” He bit off each word for emphasis. “And by God’s blood, hurry!” 

“Yes, Sire.” Leon acknowledged, already pulling away, the broad shouldered Sagramor at his side. Trailed by several knights and guards, they headed towards the door at a trot. 

“Elyan. Percival. You go with them and take Gaius,” Arthur ordered, all business now. “Carry him if you have to, but get him down there fast.” 

“Carry me?” Gaius sputtered. “I don’t think so!”

Elyan grinned and slapped Percival on the back. “Don’t look at me. You’re the one built like an ox.”

“Sorry,” Percival apologized, but otherwise ignored the physician’s protests as he swept the elderly man up in muscular arms. 

Arthur nodded his approval, then grabbed Gwaine by the arm before he could follow the others. “You stay with me. I’m going to need your help.”

Gwaine looked surprised. One might think he was under the impression that Arthur did not fully appreciate his talents. “How’s that?”

Arthur scowled, already anticipating Gwaine’s reaction. “I need you to help me get Merlin down to a cell in the dungeons.”

“A dungeon cell?” As expected Gwaine looked decidedly unimpressed. “You really think that will hold him? _‘The most powerful sorcerer that has ever lived in history from time beyond all imaginings,_ or some such… flummery?”

Arthur sighed. “Hold him? No, but it might slow him down.”

Gwaine studied him shrewdly through a sideways squint. “Just what are you planning, Oh High and Mighty One?”

Arthur mouth flattened in a grim line. “Something I hope I won’t be forced to do.”

-

#### 

*********

-

The cells below the castle were frigid, the air icy and clinging damp. Arthur’s breath curled in thin wisps in the flickering torchlight. The chill had settled deep, as though his very bones had frozen beneath flesh and skin. Shivering as much from the emotional toll of the last few days as from the cold, Arthur wondered if he would ever be warm again. 

Around him, the knights guarding the cell shifted uneasily in the shadows. The sounds of their breathing and the scuffle of their feet filled the enclosed space. Their faces were ghostly in the dim light, their breath a bank of fog at his back. Somewhere water dripped in a slow, merciless patter upon the stones.

It has been a scramble getting everything in place before Merlin awoke, but Pendragon had imagined that things would relax once they were prepared (or as prepared as they could be). What he had temporarily forgotten was that the act of doing nothing was sometimes more stressful than the rush to make ready for battle. He had gone from waiting, poised for action, outside the dungeon cell, to briskly pacing the corridor, to grasping the bars in mounting frustration while hungrily watching the slow rise and fall of Merlin’s chest where he lay, a shadowy figure stretched out upon a cot within the cell. 

Of course, every moment Merlin remained asleep was another moment the king could convince himself that all would eventually be set to rights. Once Merlin actually woke, all possibilities would narrow down to a single moment and a single choice - life or death. That is, if they would be granted even that moment. He was gambling with all their lives, and he knew it, but he could not do less. 

Not for Merlin.

“Staring at him like that isn’t going to make him wake up any faster, Your Most Royalness.” Sir Gwaine leaned insolently against the bars, cleaning his fingernails with the dagger Arthur had returned to him. “He’ll come ‘round when he’s ready.”

Arthur continued to stare into the cell, heedlessly twisting the bars in his grip. “We can’t afford any mistakes. We have to be prepared to act.”

Gwaine grunted and waved the blade in Arthur’s direction. The blade flashed silver in the faint light. “Your fretting is putting us all on edge, and the last thing you need is a bunch of twitchy knights with crossbows.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sprawled warlock. “For Merlin’s sake.”

“They will fire the bows on my command alone.”

“Right, and not a one of them has ever been overly eager on the trigger?” Gwaine paused in his personal grooming and considered. “Why, just the other day I was talking to a tavern wench and she told me that Elyan…” 

“Hold your tongue, Gwaine,” Elyan interrupted from the darkness, his cloaked figure blending so quietly with the gloom that Arthur had overlooked him until he spoke. Crossbow trained upon Merlin’s prone form, the knight delivered the warning in his distinctively soft voice, but the words carried a hard edge. “One more word out of that gleeking mouth, my friend, and I will put this bolt right between your pretty, white teeth.” 

Hovering behind Elyan’s shoulder, the towering Percival tried to hide his snicker behind a cough.

Gwaine went wide-eyed in mock indignation. “What? I was only going to say that she claimed you were an excellent tipper!”

There were a few muffled sniggers from the handful of others standing sentry in the corridor. “Yes,” piped up one brave soul from well in the back where he could not be identified. “But what was he tipping her for?”

“You sure she was talking about ‘tipping’ and not ‘tupping’?” came another impudent comment from the shadows.

“Tush now, lads,” muttered Sagramor gruffly, as always, reproachful of any comment that might besmirch the honor of the fairer sex.

“He’s right,” Arthur exhorted, expression stern with disapproval. “Can we act a bit more like Camelot’s finest and a bit less like babes in need of a wet-nurse?” The snickering trailed off, but Arthur had to admit he could feel his own shoulder’s relax a fraction. Once again, Gwaine had managed to tease away some of the tension among the men. It was a gift he possessed - a frequently annoying gift, to be sure, but one Pendragon had learned to appreciate. However, that did not mean he had to openly acknowledge his approval. Any praise would only make the man even more insufferable. Besides, judging by the irksome grin Gwaine was wearing, he was already all too aware of Arthur’s regard. 

Sir Leon approached, his heavy footsteps preceding him down the murky corridor. He careful ducked around and under the aim of the cross-bowers. His hair gleamed with fiery threads in the torchlight. Giving the king an apologetic look, he relayed yet another version of a now familiar message. “Gaius sent me to ask if anything has changed, and he seeks permission, once again, to monitor Merlin’s condition.”

Arthur sighed and reached to pinch the bridge of his nose, wishing he could muffle the pounding drums that seemed to have settled permanently within his skull. “And once again, you can tell Gaius that nothing has changed. No, he may not monitor Merlin’s condition, since we don’t yet know if Merlin _is_ Merlin. And ask him, once again, why is he not resting like I ordered?”

The knight’s expression grew even more contrite, and he shuffled a bit from foot to foot. “He’s says he’ll rest when you do, Sire.”

“He says…” Arthur’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Well, you can tell him…”

Merlin groaned - a long, low rasp of sound that clawed its way out of his mouth. 

Instantly, every single man on guard outside the cell was alert and focused, awaiting Arthur’s orders. Leon’s hand flew to his hilt, and even Gwaine spun into a crouch, his dagger poised for throwing. This, Arthur reflected, was why these men _were_ Camelot’s finest. All he need do was drop his hand, and the bowmen would lose a volley of quarrels into the small cell. Authority over life and death. It was something he had seen his father exercise many a time, but he still felt uncomfortable with that amount of power. 

“Oooh… my head…” Merlin - _or was it Merlin?_ \- moaned again and arched atop the straw pallet, his limbs flopping limply, hands fluttering like wounded birds. The shadows of his movements flicked upon the walls of the cell in a muted dance of diaphanous shapes.

Arthur and eight of his best men watched, not daring to breathe.

A few frantic gulps of air. Some near sobs of distress. Then a low moan. “Arthur?”

“Hold,” Pendragon commanded in a hush to his men before raising his voice to address the wizard in the cell. “Merlin? Can you hear me?”

The figure on the cot stilled for a moment, then thrashed about trying to sit up. The one blanket thrown over his form slipped to the floor in a puddle of threadbare wool. “Arthur? What…? Where…? What’s happened? I… I can’t… It’s…” 

“Easy,” Arthur soothed, interrupting the tormented rambling. “Be easy. I need you to listen to me. Do not make any sudden moves. Just go slowly.”

The sorcerer subsided, lying back and panting hard. Crystalline clouds of breath gathering above his head. “Arthur?” 

The voice quavered, like that of a small, frightened child, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to take Merlin in his arms and settle him. 

_‘I should have given him another blanket,’_ he thought, suddenly ashamed. _‘He’s likely freezing with the cold. Why didn’t I think to give him another blanket?’_

“I’m here,” he reassured. “Can you sit up?”

A long moment of quiescence broken only by the occasional whimper of distress. 

Then -

“I think… yes. It’s all so… it’s gone… it’s all gone. I can’t feel it anymore. All of it. Gone.” 

He sounded broken and cast adrift. His distress called out to Arthur. Steeling himself, the king set aside his desire to comfort and forced a sharp edge into his words. “Sit up now,” he instructed, focusing upon his duty to Camelot and her people. “I need you to sit up and look at me.”

The prone figure slowly tucked, moving with painstaking caution. Rolling onto his side, he let momentum help carry him upright. Hunched forward as though ill, he lifted one trembling hand to the choker around his neck. “Oh…” a soft exhalation of sound as the slender fingers traced the runes carved into the metal surface. “Yes. I see.”

“Merlin.” Arthur tried to keep any impatience out of his voice. “Please, look at me.”

Bracing one trembling hand against the wall, the slender warlock carefully leveled himself to his feet, tottering like a newly born foal on unsteady legs. Guardedly, as though every movement brought pain, he uncurled and turned towards the corridor. 

For a moment, Pendragon just stared at the wasted, tear-stained face. The eyes that sought his own were the clear, guileless blue of an afternoon sky. Feeling as though something had broken inside, something brittle and cold, he let his head fall forward against the bars. “Merlin. Thank the gods. You’re you!”

Beside him, Gwaine whooped and jauntily twirled his dagger through his fingers. “I knew you were still in there, you fey princox!”

Percival leaned close, whispering low, his crossbow still steady on the figure in the cell. “How can you be sure it’s him?”

“The eyes,” Gwaine crowed. “Look at his eyes!” 

The cloudless, blue eyes - no longer defiled by darkness.

“Arthur?” Merlin was shuffling towards them, across the small cell, reaching out frantically. “Oh… Arthur. Please!”

Pendragon could feel the coil of tension constrict around his men, could sense their fingers tightening on the triggers of their crossbows. “Hold!” he shouted, repeating his earlier order. 

Then Merlin was stumbling and falling to his knees, fingers desperately fumbling at the bars, words spilling out of his mouth in choked sobs. “Arthur! I’m so sorry… I tried. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t stop it. I…”

Arthur did not realize he had moved, until he was also on his knees, his gloved fingers entwined with Merlin’s own through the bars. “Hush. Hush. Hush now.” He pressed his forehead against the bars, mirroring Merlin on the other side. “I know. It’s all right. Just be easy.”

Behind him, he heard Leon efficiently gathering the men. “All right, you. Let’s give them a moment. And not a word of this to anyone. And by my sword, if I hear a hint of gossip about this, I’ll have the lot of you in irons. Understood?”

“I’ll stay.” That from Gwaine. “Hopeless as mewling kittens, the pair of them. Someone has to keep an eye on things.”

Arthur felt he really should protest that effrontery, but doing so would require pulling away from Merlin, and that he would not do. Not yet. 

For a while, they just breathed – Merlin, harshly through his mouth. Arthur, in quick snatches of air as he tried to rein in his emotions - breathed and held on, afraid to let go for fear of losing one another again. 

“Tell me,” he finally nudged, pressing hard against the chill iron of the bars.

A hiss of indrawn breath, followed by a tumble of words. “I… It was that box. You were right, Arthur. I should never have opened it. There was a spell. It was... cold. So cold… I couldn’t… Too strong… I wasn’t… like being torn apart… ” Merlin began breathing faster again, his words fracturing into shards of sound. 

“Easy,” Arthur pacified, keeping his voice steady but firm, offering it as a lifeline for Merlin to grasp. As much as he wanted to be friend and lover in this, right now he must be king. “I’m here. You are safe, but I need to know. What happened?” 

The warlock took a deep breath, seeming to gather himself. “It was dark magic. A spell. Inside the box. When I opened it, I released it, and I… I wasn’t prepared.”

“What kind of spell?” Gwaine was suddenly there, looming over the two of them. His intrusive comment shattered the illusion of privacy and Arthur turned on him with an annoyed glare. Gwaine caught the look and wisely retreated, but not without replying with a meaningful expression of his own. Even without words, the man was well versed in the language of impertinence.

Merlin looked up, his troubled gaze brushing over Gwaine before settling on Arthur. “Do you remember that thief, Cedric? How he was taken over by the soul of Cornelius Sigan and tried to destroy Camelot?”

“When we were attacked by the flying gargoyles come to life? Yes, that isn’t the kind of thing you forget. I still bear the scars.”

“The spell… it was like that - fashioned of dark magic. It was meant to destroy the essence of who I am and replace it with something else, something… evil.” A fine shudder passed through the magician’s thin frame, as though he were trying to throw off the taint of corruption. “I don’t think it worked the way it was supposed to, though.”

Arthur frowned, troubled brows drawing together. “What do you mean?”

“You remember how Sigan tried to ensorcel me? I was able to deflect his spell using an incantation given to me by the Great Dragon.”

“Yes.” Arthur recalled that tale, and many more - stories told late at night as the two of them sat by the hearth and talked - stories of fantastic events and deeds that Arthur now realized he had lived through, witnessed, and yet never really seen. It had been a sobering revelation.

“I think that magic is still alive in me somehow.” Merlin seemed somewhat awed by this revelation, his eyes wide with the wonder of a child - or imprudent, dizzy-eyed wizards. “In some way, Kilgharrah’s spell has become a part of me. So the enchantment couldn’t take root the way it was meant to. It could only steal my free will and my control. It couldn’t change the essence of who I am. The part of me that is me was still there. I could do nothing to stop it, but I was aware of everything happening.” 

His fingers tightened around the metal bars and his face began to crumple in distress. “It was… terrible. So terrible. I… I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t… couldn’t… Poor Ademar. And Borin. Alith and Tom from the kennels… I’m so sorry! Arthur, I am so sorry!” 

“Merlin… Hush. It’s all right.” Denied the ability to comfort with an embrace, Arthur tried the solace of words, but they felt inadequate in the face of such torment. 

“And now it’s all gone! Everything! My magic is gone! All of it gone. And it hurts. It burns like ice.” Merlin’s teeth chattered, as his voice dropped to mere thread of sound. “I feel so empty… so cold… cold…” 

_‘If it hurts,’_ Arthur thought, _‘let me take away the pain.’_

_‘If you feel empty, let me fill you.’_

_’If you are cold, let me warm you.’_

But he said none of these things. It would not be seemly. He was the king, after all, not a milk-maid. All he could do was repeat, “It’s all right, Merlin.” But of course, it was not. And when his friend folded forward, his hands slipping from the bars as he curled in upon himself and keened like a disconsolate child, Arthur could no longer reign in his sense of urgency. 

“Merlin!” he cried, fingers stretching helplessly through the bars, unable to reach the warlock. “Merlin…” Surging to his feet Pendragon patted his belt, then swore bitterly when his fingers encountered no key-ring. “Keys! I need the keys!”

“You gave them to Leon,” Gwaine reminded. Apparently, withdrawing to the shadows had not discouraged him from eavesdropping. “To keep you from doing something foolish, like… Oh, I don’t know…” He tipped his head towards the distressed warlock, “…going into the cell and taking that collar off maybe?”

“Get me the keys!” Arthur snapped. Then noting the sardonic tilt of Gwaine’s head and perceptive smirk, he made an effort to regain his composure. Drawing his shoulders back, he tempered his emotional reaction. “I won’t take the collar off. Not until I am sure it is safe, but…” he glanced towards the huddled figure on the floor of the cell, and his hands clenched into fists at his side. “I will go to him.”

Gwaine shrugged, as though it was no concern of his, but Pendragon was certain he would have protested if he thought Merlin were still a threat. “Then, I guess you will be needing these.” Gwaine twirled Pendragon’s set of keys on the end of his finger. Arthur snatched them away with a scowl while Sir Gwaine grinned, forever unrepentant. “You gave them to Leon, and Leon gave them to me. I guess he figured you might want them.” Then his expression sobered into uncharacteristic gravity. “Go on then, Arthur. Go to him. He needs you.”

Once again, Pendragon was struck by how well his men knew him. Knew him, trusted him, and did all they could to protect him, even from himself. “Thank you,” he managed brusquely, as he fumbled with the key in the lock. His hands were shaking with need. Need to hurry. Need to comfort. Need to touch. “I’m coming, Merlin,” he promised under his breath. “Just hold on.”

The metal bars swung open with a rusty cry, and Arthur was through in a flash of scarlet and gold. Falling on his knees beside Merlin’s desolate form, he hissed as the movement jarred his ribs. Gently, he lifted his friend from the floor and folded the shaking warlock in his arms, holding the lean body close. “Hush now,” he murmured, burying his nose against the warm skin of Merlin’s neck, inhaling his scent. “It will be all right. I will make it all right. I promise.”

His hands rubbed soothing circles against Merlin’s back, the silken material of his robes rumpling in soft folds under his hands. Tenderly, he laid a path of kisses along the slender neck, all the while murmuring words of comfort. Then, sliding his hands upward into fine, dark hair, Arthur cupped the beloved face and pulled back to drink in the sight. Merlin was a wreck; features crumpled and splotchy like an old, stained rag, eyes swollen and red, cheeks damp with the tracks of tears, nose dripping with snot, blue eyes swimming – yet, he was the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever seen. “Oh gods, how I missed you,” he breathed, grasping those all too convenient, overly-large, ears and pulling Merlin into a deep kiss.

To his displeasure, Merlin proved uncooperative, struggling to disengage with a muffled protest. Arthur did his best to convince the wizard to give in gracefully, using lips and tongue to his best advantage, but finally withdrew with a huff of disappointment. Ruffling Merlin’s hair soothingly, he asked, “What is it? Are you angry? Is that it? I am sorry we did not know how to reach you sooner. We tried everything we knew.”

“No. No. It’s not that. I’m not upset with you, Arthur. I just…” Merlin goggled at him. “How can you…? How? After all I have done?”

“It wasn’t you.” And that settled it for Arthur. As far as he was concerned, Merlin was innocent of whatever evil the box had unleashed upon him. He could not be held accountable for what some malevolent spell had forced him to do. 

However, when he tried to draw the magician close for another kiss, Merlin planted a determined hand in the center of Arthur’s chest and confessed, “But it was me.”

Arthur sighed - a deep, long-suffering exhalation of air. Merlin had never been well versed in the art of capitulation. It was one of the aspects of his personality Arthur found both advantageous and exasperating. Still, he had rather hoped that, in light of their long separation and ensuing trauma, the whole soul searching thing could have been delayed until after some satisfactory oral contact and frantic grappling. After all, he had nearly lost Merlin forever to the darkness. Having him here, alive and breathing, and so very present, was proving exceedingly distracting. Although Arthur was fully aware that he was demonstrating a perturbing lack of discipline, he felt driven to re-affirm their connection in as intimate a manner as possible. 

However, Merlin apparently had other ideas.

Not lover then. 

Perhaps not even friend. 

It was to be king for now. 

This time, Merlin had chosen to set the tone, and though it might not be to Arthur’s liking, he did trust the intrinsic sense of balance that marked their relationship. If the sorcerer felt this was important, then Arthur would listen, doing his best to tamp down on the simmering demands of his heart and body.

He lowered himself to a seated position, crossed his legs, and resigned himself to a somber discussion. “What do you mean?”

Taking his cue from Arthur, Merlin sat back on his heels across from Pendragon. “The spell. It didn’t…” The wizard paused, apparently struggling to put into words what he had experienced. “It wasn’t like someone else was had authority over me. I mean, it was _me_ in control, but… really, it was me _not_ in control of me.”

Arthur gave that convoluted comment all the consideration it was due, which was very little. “You do realize you are speaking utter rubbish.”

Merlin tugged at his hair, leaving it sticking up in wild tufts, which was more than a little adorable and made Arthur want to nibble his way up Merlin’s neck. Instead, he waited patiently, or at least managed a fair imitation of forbearance, while his warlock tried to explain himself more clearly.

“You know how people can think horrid things, but most of the time they do not act on those thoughts, because… well, it would be wrong?”

“Yes, Merlin… I believe it is called a conscience. Very annoying on occasion.” 

The present being one such occasion, considering that his conscience was very much in conflict with his libido at the moment.

“That’s what it was like. As though my conscience was gone, and every negative thought I had became manifest. I knew what was happening, but I had no restraint.” Restless fingers tugged at the cuffs of his robe. “It was my thoughts, _my_ desires that made those things happen.”

“One cannot be blamed for the content of one’s thoughts,” Arthur reassured. “If we were held accountable for the nature of our whims, well then we would likely all be tyrants at one time or another.”

“They weren’t just whims, Arthur,” Merlin pointed out fretfully. “I did those things. I hurt those people.”

“I understand.” Arthur settled his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, mouth grim. “I do. More than most, I imagine. As king, I have the great power over the lives of others. In some ways, my desires can shape the course of destiny. That is why the counsel of good men like you is so vital to me.” His fingers tightened, giving a light squeeze. “You help me see clearly. So, help me see clearly now. You yourself said that you could not prevent your thoughts from shaping the events going on around you. Should I then denounce you for acts you could not control? What punishment should I mete out for dangerous thoughts, Merlin? And if I do so, then would any be spared my wrath?”

“I…” Merlin continued to worry the cuff of his sleeve, finally pulling lose a thread. “Those people… They did not deserve…”

Arthur gave the shoulders a little shake. “I know it grieves you to know people suffered at your hands. I know the feeling well, but I cannot find it within myself to condemn you.”

Merlin, as stubborn as ever, was not so willing to forgive. He shook his head, determined to convince Arthur of his guilt. “I should have been better prepared. You tried to warn me about the chest. I should have listened!”

“When have you ever listened to me? Have I not told you repeatedly that you are an idiot?”

Merlin could only accede to the truth of that, his shoulders slumping under Arthur’s touch.

“But you are my idiot, and I love you with every fiber of my being,” Arthur conceded, voice rough.

Merlin offered him a watery smile - and oh, how wonderful it was to see that smile, shaky as it was. Gone was the razor-edged, venomous smirk. This was all Merlin, open and tentative and so very much missed. Arthur’s heart rejoiced at the sight, and he could not help but pull Merlin forward, into a strong embrace, or as strong as he could manage while paying heed to the warning twinge in his side.

“Then perhaps,” Merlin puffed as Arthur squeezed tightly, “your judgment… is not impartial… in this case.”

“Impartial or not, it is my judgment, and I am king. Belonging to royalty does have its advantages.”

“Prat.”

Arthur grinned into Merlin’s neck. “Yes, but I am _your_ prat. That should count for something.”

This time Merlin did not resist the kiss, which was deep and eager, and full of promise. As their mouths clashed and tongues wrestled, Merlin tried to say something. His mumbled words spilled over Arthur’s tongue, thrummed in his throat, and were swallowed by his passion.

“Hmmm?” Arthur responded, enjoying the husky vibrations resonating between them.

There followed another muffled grunt from Merlin which Pendragon ignored in favor of trying to find ingress beneath Merlin’s robes.

This elicited an intriguing whine from Merlin, which Arthur found quite encouraging - up until the moment Merlin pulled back and stiff armed him in the chest. “Wait,” the warlock panted, face flushed, and lips delightfully damp and rosy. “There… is still the… matter of… the collar.”

Arthur nearly growled in frustration. “Do we really need to discuss that right now?”

Merlin paused for a moment, expression dazed, seeming to consider the question. Then just when Arthur thought he might relent, the mage swallowed and nodded, features crinkling with apology. “Yes. I rather think we do.”

Arthur groaned. “I don’t suppose it would be very honorable of me just to command you to succumb to my seduction, would it?”

Merlin smiled, his expression a bit lopsided from stress and grief. “Tempting yes, but not honorable, no.”

With a heavy sigh, Arthur let his head drop forward, the weight of duty pressing down, unforgiving and rebarbative. “Oh, all right then. What about the collar?”

The smile wobbled even more. “You’re not going to like it.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

“True.”

“Merlin…” There was a hint of warning just below the surface. The uncertainty and strain of the last few days had stripped him bare. He had no patience for Merlin’s usual games. Not to mention, the stone floor was freezing and his backside was going numb with the cold.

This time it was Merlin’s turn to reach out in comfort. Gentle fingers thoughtfully traced down the side of Arthur’s face, as though seeking meaning in the curve of his cheekbone. Clouds of disquiet flickered in the depths of the magician’s wide eyes, dulling them with a tint of grey. 

Arthur’s inner alarms set up a clamor. Merlin was never meant to look so serious, and when he did, it inevitably foretold disaster for Arthur and Camelot. “Merlin,” he breathed again, but this time there was no chastisement in the name, but rather a soft plea. Whatever it was Merlin was about to tell him, he knew it was going to demolish the small sanctuary they had built in this moment, smash the illusion that everything was going to be fine. _‘Don’t say it!’_ He wanted to make it a command, a royal decree, one Merlin would not dare defy. _‘Don’t! If you don’t speak, we can remain here in this moment. We can be safe in this moment. We can be together in this moment.’_

And Merlin was looking back at him with a knowing sorrow, as though he discerned Pendragon’s every thought and longed to grant him what he wished, but had no choice other than to shatter them both. Still, he must have taken pity, for he said nothing for a moment, simply took Arthur’s hand in his and held it in his own, running his thumb over the back of the king’s fingers. When he did speak, his voice was soft and easy, trying to hold back the shadows just a short while longer. “Tell me about the collar.”

“The collar?”

“Yes, Arthur,” Merlin’s fragile smile was a poignant twist of heartache and amusement. “The collar. The one around my neck. Tell me about it.”

“Well…” Pendragon faltered for a moment, trying to remember everything Gaius had told him about the device. “It is some kind of magical restraint. My father had it fashioned during the Great Purge. It prevents the wearer from being able to use magic.”

“It inhibits magic.” Merlin nodded and sighed. “I thought as much.”

“You can tell?”

Merlin laughed, but there was nothing of mirth in the sound -instead it skirted perilously close to a sob. His long fingers traced the choker fitted around his neck, then recoiled. “Oh. Yes, I can tell.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide as he suddenly understood what Merlin had been hiding all along. “It’s painful for you!” He reached out to touch the collar. The metal was cool under his fingers, but dead to his touch, no different from the lifeless metal of a pot or spoon. It did not even have the warm tingle he felt when he drew Excalibur. However, he suspected the effect was far different for Merlin. “Is it…? Merlin is it hurting you?” 

Merlin just gazed back at him, silent.

“Merlin!” He put all of the power of his command behind his words. “Tell me!”

Merlin ducked his head, and it was so like a flinch it made Arthur ache. “Yes,” he hissed. “It hurts, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Arthur spat, angry with himself for not realizing sooner, for not sparing Merlin even this small defilement after all that he has suffered. “I’ll have you out of it in a moment!” 

He started to rise, but Merlin reached out and caught his arm frantically. “Arthur! You can’t! Without the collar, I do not know if I can control the spell. It might take me over again.”

“You’re suffering!”

“A small price to pay. How much more would I suffer to know I brought about the downfall of Camelot?” Merlin shook his head, helplessly. “I would rather die than harm you, Arthur. You know that.”

Pendragon gazed back, expression pained, torn between duty and sentiment. “But, your magic. Merlin…” 

Merlin scrunched with guilt. “I know. I am not much use to you like this.”

“It’s not that!” Arthur snapped, bitter at being so misunderstood, after all they had experienced together. He _knew_ what Merlin’s abilities meant to him. How devastating losing them would be. “Do you think I care about that?”

“You should,” Merlin answered plainly. “Morgana would not have set this spell without a plan. She may take advantage of it to attack Camelot.”

“Morgana?” Even now, after all she had done, Arthur still secretly longed for Morgana’s redemption, still found himself lost in gossamer memories of a time when she had been considered a trusted friend, not an enemy. Foolish as it might be, it was his hope that one day, without Morgause’s influence upon her, Morgana would find her way back to them. “Are you sure?

Merlin was looking at him with fond understanding, well aware of the king’s feelings towards his wayward sister. Still, he would not lie, not even to spare Arthur. “It is hers. Every sorcerer’s magic is unique. It has a certain… flavor. This spell. It tastes of her.”

“Well,” Pendragon stated with the bold confidence of someone used to having his bidding carried out without question. “If you cannot stop her, we just need to find others who can. You are not the only magician in the kingdom now.”

“No,” Merlin agreed, running a hand carelessly through his hair. “And perhaps several magicians working together could defeat her, but if she is in collusion with Mordred, then only I am powerful enough to face them.”

“But you can’t. Not while wearing the choker.” 

“And if I take off the collar, then I am just as likely to destroy Camelot myself.”

For a long moment, they studied each other in stillness, the only sound their soft breathing and the drip of water somewhere nearby. The heinous dilemma was laid bare before them in a nasty tangle of potential pitfalls and lurking catastrophe. 

Then, Arthur drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “You were right. I don’t like it.”

Merlin squirmed and scratched at his head, looking apologetic. “That’s not all.”

That was a surprise, and likely not a pleasant one. “You’ve just told me my kingdom is doomed. What more could there possibly be?”

Merlin prepared to speak, then paused. His gaze fluttered across Arthur’s features, touching as lightly as the dance of a butterfly over a field of flowers. Seeming to read something in the planes and lines of Pendragon’s face, the warlock shut his mouth and swallowed hard. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Merlin.”

“It’s nothing.” A light shrug and trickster’s smile. All casual innocence. Oh, Arthur knew that look well. 

“Which coming from you, means it is indeed something I should know.”

Merlin shook his head in vehement denial. “No really. It isn’t important.”

Before Arthur could inquire further, Gwaine interrupted. 

“It’s killing him.” 

His voice was a sudden surprise. So intent had been Arthur’s focus upon Merlin that he had forgotten they were not alone.

The words slipped out of Gwaine’s mouth with deceptive ease, as though they were meaningless. However, the serious edge to the knight’s tone was so unlike his usual impertinence, that Arthur did not doubt their veracity even for an instant. 

His attention fixed instantly and unshakably upon Merlin. “What?”

Merlin, for his part, was staring with shocked accusation at his friend. “Gwaine!” 

“That’s what he won’t tell you,” Gwaine continued inexorably, both betraying Merlin’s trust and shaking Arthur to the core with his relentless words. “Wearing that collar is killing him. He can’t live without his magic. He’ll die if he keeps it on.”

“Gwaine… no.” Merlin wilted to the floor, stricken.

Gwaine truly did look regretful, but also determined. “Sorry love, for a moment there I thought you might tell him the truth, but then you went all noble.” He waved a hand. “It looked like it was up to me.”

Stunned, Arthur gaped. “Merlin? Is that true?”

Merlin said nothing, just stared at the floor of the cell, dirt encrusted fingertips digging restlessly at the filth embedded between cracks in the paving stones. 

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted, disposition growing forceful with the sudden flush of horror that washed through him. “Does he speak the truth? Answer me!”

Haunted blue eyes lifted to his, guilt ridden but steadfast. That was all the answer he needed. “Why? Why weren’t you going to tell me?” Rattled, he stared at his friend.

Adviser.

Warlock.

Lover.

The other half of his soul. 

“You would have died without telling me? Why? Why would you do that?” 

But he knew, even without listening to Merlin’s answer. 

He knew, because he would have done the very same.

“I needed you to make the decision based upon what is best for Camelot. I need you to decide what to do without… without thinking about me.” 

Those blue eyes were soft, begging for understanding, and as much as he wanted to be furious, Arthur did understand – all too well. 

“Camelot is bigger than us,” Merlin continued, demeanor weighted by aching compassion and sentiment. “Bigger than you or me, together or apart. It not just a place. It is an idea. A dream.” He smiled, a simple, heartfelt upturn of the lips. “Don’t you see? Camelot gives people hope and strength in a world that is often brutal and bitter. It is a beacon of light against the darkness.” Shaking his head, he spread his arms to encompass everything around them. “I couldn’t let you risk all that for me.”

Once again, Arthur was left to marvel at the contradictory manner in which Merlin could frequently natter on like an idle-headed giglet, and yet prove so wise and eloquent with his words when they truly mattered.

Keeping his features carefully composed, he cleared his throat. Merlin’s actions had stung, and Pendragon was not quite ready to absolve the warlock of his misstep. “So, you did not think me ruler enough to put my personal feelings aside and do what is best for my kingdom? Is that what you are saying?”

That got a reaction. Merlin’s eyes went comically wide in consternation. “No! Not at all! I’d never…”

“Because that appears to be what you are suggesting.”

“No! I didn’t mean… I was just…”

Arthur tilted his head, expression expectant. “Yes?”

Merlin sighed, defeated. “I was trying to spare you.”

“Spare me?” Reprehension lent his voice an uncustomary density. “By willingly dying at my hand without giving me the courtesy of knowing what my decision would ultimately cost both of us?” He reached out to grasp the narrow chin, tilting Merlin’s face upward so his eyes could not escape Arthur’s censuring gaze. “If that is your idea of compassion, Merlin…” His words caught for a moment on the emotions in his throat, and he was forced to swallow them down. “I would prefer to be _spared_ such kindness.”

Merlin had the prudence to look properly chagrined. “Yes, Sire,” he murmured, his eyes dropping respectively. Capitulation was not an expression he wore well, but in this instance, it was obvious his discomfiture was genuine.

Arthur’s finger strayed to the cold metal of the chocker around Merlin’s neck. “How long?” he asked, voice coarse with agitation. He did not need to elaborate. They were both fully aware of the import of his inquiry.

Merlin grimaced. “A few days. A sennight at most.”

Arthur studied him silently for a moment, lips pursed as he considered this information. “You wouldn’t mislead me again, now would you? Because if you drop dead in a candlemark, I shall be much put out.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth lifted in appreciation of Arthur’s subtle jesting. “I will get weaker, but it won’t kill me.” He cocked his head, like an impertinent bird. “Yet.”

Arthur squinted one eye. “And the pain?”

A perfunctory nod. “Manageable.”

“Define ‘manageable’.”

Merlin gave a tug at the choker and winced. Pasting on a shaky smile he hastened to reassure, “Worse than after a night spent in the tavern with Gwaine and Sagramor, but not nearly as bad as the time Sir Niall’s squire mistook me for a partridge and shot me with an arrow.”

Arthur easily saw past the false brightness, but chose to allow Merlin the comfort of his frail charade. “I don’t think he actually thought you were a partridge. He just had appalling aim.”

“I still think Niall put him up to it.”

“Hmm,” Arthur played along, letting their repartee carry them through, as it had done so many times in the past. He knew, when it came to dealing with the ravage of emotions, wordplay could be a far more effective weapon than swordplay. “He certainly was not overly fond of you, that is true.” 

“It is not my fault his lady decided I was in dire need of mothering.”

Arthur’s lips quirked. “No. However, I do recall, she had particularly ample… mothering skills.”

Ears flushing delightedly red at the tips, Merlin grinned. “Yeah. Well, there was that.”

Arthur ruffled Merlin’s hair, feeling such a flood of affection that it threatened to drown his senses. Swallowing back his feelings, he spoke gently, “Listen, love. I need… I need some time to think this all through. To be certain my heart and mind are at one with this.” He cupped the side of Merlin’s face and ran a thumb along the high cheekbone. “Can you give me that time? A candlemark or two to decide what must be done? If the pain is too much…”

Merlin did not hesitate. “Of course, Arthur. Whatever you need.”

“Gods, Merlin…” and Arthur had to turn away for a moment, nearly overcome. “I might be commending you to agonizing death, and you just…”

Merlin reached out, and this time, it was he who cupped Arthur’s face between in his own hands, holding him steady and gazing into his eyes with perfect trust and confidence. “It is all right. I will be fine. I know you will do what is right. I believe in you. I always have.”

Arthur just shook his head helplessly. “Merlin…”

But his protest was cut short as Merlin reeled him in, lips pressing lightly against his own in a pledge of unwavering devotion. “Have faith in yourself, Arthur Pendragon,” he murmured as he pulled away, “as I do.”

And for a moment, he seemed lit from within - glorious and alive with a power Arthur could never begin to fully understand. 

Then the warlock huffed a sigh, and the illusion of splendor was gone. He was just gawky, lanky-limbed Merlin once again. “So I’ll just hang out here, shall I? Gwaine promised to teach me a new dice game, so take what time you need. We both know I’m hopeless at dice, and it will likely take me all night to master the rules. If there are any, seeing as this is Gwaine we are talking about.”

“I shan’t be long,” Arthur promised, and dove in for another quick kiss before rising and striding from the cell in a swirl of crimson. “Stay with him,” he commanded as he swept past Sir Gwaine. He did not wait for Gwaine’s reply, and he did not look back.

-

#### 

*********

-

It was questionable if any of the king’s advisors actually remained in Camelot, many having chosen to make themselves scarce. Furthermore, calling a full council meeting in the wee hours of the morning would have led to a great deal of grumbling among the more choleric counselors, or so Pendragon told himself when he decided to keep this gathering more intimate and limited to his trusted inner circle. 

They met in the North Solar, and as he studied the assembled group seated at the Round Table, Arthur recalled with a twist of irony that their current troubles had begun while seated at this very table. Vacant chairs served as a poignant reminder of the damage wrought by Morgana’s scheme. Merlin’s seat was empty now, as it had been then. Yet he seemed omnipresent, for it was Merlin who lay at the center of events while the rest of them were swept along by the spiraling currents that swirled around the sorcerer. Lancelot and Gwen’s empty chairs stood side by side, accusing Arthur in silence. Sagramor’s seat was also without an occupant, for at Arthur’s command, the knight had taken charge of one of the patrols sent out to watch for any signs that Morgana or Mordred’s forces were on the move. His scouting party would be closest to the borders of Cendred’s previous kingdom, and thus at most risk. Gwaine was with Merlin, but his was one absence Arthur did not regret, for he had not wished to leave Merlin to face the long night alone. 

Of those who had gathered the night Merlin had been first stricken, only Sir Leon and Gaius were also present now. Leon caught Arthur’s eye across the table, perhaps remembering as well. Though Arthur regretted rousing him from his warm bed, Gaius had insisted upon attending, saying that at his age, sleep was ever more elusive, and he might as well make himself useful. 

They were joined by Percival, Elyan, and Cadell ap Dafydd, an envoy sent to Camelot by Queen Annis the previous summer. Short of stature, round of belly and given to overly indulging in wine, Cadell was not the sort of man who would draw attention, but he had a quick mind, a courageous heart and a plain spoken, if less than reverent, tongue. He had proven to be one of Arthur’s most valuable advisers. 

In the soft, golden glow of candle light thrown by iron wall brackets and tripod candelabra, they sat around the table and exchanged speculative looks. A small gathering, to be sure, but composed of people whose opinions Pendragon most trusted.

One they had settled, Arthur stood to address them. As succinctly as possible, he laid out the situation and the dilemma facing them. “I know all of you are aware,” he concluded, “of how important Merlin is to me, as an adviser as well as a companion. But…” he lifted his chin, firming his stance. “We must think of Camelot and all her people when we make this decision. I ask all of you to be open and forthright with your thoughts. And I give you my word that whatever you say, if it be shared in an honest desire to best serve Camelot, will not be held against you.”

Arthur watched the rapid exchange of fleeting looks around the room - an intent, silent conversation conducted by shared glances and subtle shifts in expression. He was not certain they believed his assurance that they need not fear reprisal, but he had to hope they did, for he needed frankness and clear sight to counterbalance his own possible bias.

“Sire,” Gaius was the first one to brave speaking out, placing his hands flat upon the table in an ancient gesture that was meant to convey the speaker carried no weapons and intended no violence. “If I may inquire… what was your conclusion?”

Expression carefully schooled to give nothing away, Arthur studied Gaius. It was a fair question, and one they were likely all wondering. However, it was not one he could answer if he truly wished to foster open communication. “I prefer to keep my own counsel for now, Gaius.” He said it gently, with no hint of censure. He hoped they would understand and accept his reasons.

More silent communication around the table. For once, Arthur wished Gwaine were present. He would have spoken up without reservation, and likely would have had a great deal to say. Although Arthur frequently dismissed much of the glib knight’s prattle, Gwaine’s unique perspective did occasionally cause Pendragon to consider ideas he might otherwise have overlooked.

“Hmm,” Cadell ap Dafydd, rumbled, tugging on the end of his short beard. “And you are certain the Merlin in the dungeon is truly our Merlin, and he is not attempting to deceive you?”

Arthur nodded. “I would stake my life on it.”

Cadell snorted. “You may well be doing so, Pendragon. And the rest of our lives as well.”

Gaius added his reassurances. “Cadell, as you know, Merlin is like a son to me. I know him well. I spoke with him this night and believe him to be his true self.”

Cadell tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Then if both our bold, young king and the court physician vouch for him, who am I to doubt?”

“We need to decide how to proceed from here,” Arthur set forth. “Please, speak your minds.”

Elyan gnawed on his lower lip in disquiet. “Does he know we are meeting like this?” 

“He knows I am weighing the options, yes.”

Elyan glanced around the table. “Merlin is friend to us all. You are putting a great deal of faith in us to make the best choice for Camelot.”

Arthur knew exactly what he was trusting to their judgment, and how much they all had to lose. He simply nodded at Elyan, making no effort to mask his heart. “Yes,” he agreed. “I am.”

“Let me see if I have this all straight in my mind.” Cadell sat forward and ran a thumb across his bristling mustache. “Merlin cannot defend Camelot while wearing the choker, and if he keeps wearing it, then he will die.”

“Yes.” Arthur was surprised by how unemotional he sounded as he pronounced what was, in essence, a death sentence for Merlin.

“And then the Lady Morgana and that little druid whelp may or may not attack. But if they do, we have little defense.”

“There are some sorcerers who may aid us,” Arthur clarified, “but Merlin does not think they will be powerful enough to defeat Morgana and Mordred, especially if they are allied.”

Leon spoke up reluctantly. “Many magic users are still leery of Camelot, and others may well align themselves with Morgana’s forces, should she attack.” He glanced uneasily at Arthur, clearing his throat before continuing. “Your father’s legacy casts a long shadow.”

As troublesome as it was to hear those words, Pendragon could only acknowledge the truth of them with a nod for Leon, letting the knight know he appreciated the candor. “Yes. Merlin has been trying to entice more magic users to Camelot, but we do not yet have the support to withstand a strong assault.

“What about the druids?” Elyan put forward. “Surely we can count on them. Hasn’t Iseldir pledged himself to you?”

“He has.” Arthur took a moment to mull over his next words. They were not likely to be welcomed by any of those present. “However, it seems that many of the druids have chosen to support young Mordred, believing he is the true harbinger of destiny, not Merlin.”

This announcement did indeed cause a bit of a stir, for it was news that Arthur had chosen not to share with his council until such time as he could bring more to the table than unsubstantiated whispers and rumors. Merlin had been in touch with the druid elders, trying to get information that was more definite. However, the magic users had proven reluctant to discuss the apparent division growing within their loosely knit community. Merlin had been making plans to visit their encampments himself, later in the spring. He had begged Arthur to keep the information quiet until then, worried that such dire news might turn people against the druids. 

Cadell rocked forward in his seat, blue eyes sharp beneath bushy eyebrows. “Ah. So Mordred and Morgana may have druid sorcerers on their side as well?” 

“Not all the druids,” Arthur hastily amended, but there was no denying Mordred would likely have druid support.

“That is unfortunate.” Gaius steepled his fingers under his chin and frowned. “I fear Camelot will not withstand such an alliance.”

Percival’s blunt features were laden with unease as he voiced what all of them were thinking. “So, without Merlin’s help, Camelot will fall.” 

Arthur gave a curt nod. “If Morgana attacks and has Mordred’s support… it would appear so, yes.”

Cadell’s pudgy fingers drummed against the tabletop. “Hmm. And what are the chances of her attacking, do you think?”

Arthur blew out a breath, and tapped his knuckles on the table. “I think it likely. She may have set this spell upon Merlin merely for revenge, but I have no doubt she will take advantage as soon as she hears what has happened.”

Elyan shifted in his seat. “But if we take the collar off, Merlin himself will destroy us.”

“ _Might_ destroy us!” Cadell held up a finger. “And therein lies the crux of our quandary. Yes?” Wagging the finger at Arthur, he added, “Too bad that sister of yours fights against us. We could use someone with the Sight to guide us in this.” 

Glancing around the table as though seeking support for what he intended to say, Leon sat forward in his chair. “It would seem to me…” he said slowly, measuring his words, “that the only realistic chance we have, is to remove the collar and hope Merlin is strong enough to overcome the spell.”

“Yes!” Cadell’s hand slapped down on the table. “I concur. If we don’t take off the collar, and Merlin dies, then Morgana will likely form and alliance with Mordred and bring about our downfall. If we _do_ take the collar off, Merlin may destroy us, but he also may prove our salvation. Neither choice is without danger, but at least one gives us a fighting chance.”

The others at the table nodded, acceding to Cadell’s logic.

Pendragon took a moment to glance at each person seated at the table. In the flickering candlelight, their faces were half-seen portraits painted with shadow and light. “So, are we all in agreement? We remove the choker?”

“What of you, Your Majesty?” Gaius asked, studying Arthur curiously. “Do you approve?”

Arthur smiled fondly at the old man. “Yes. I approve. That was also my conclusion, but I needed to know I was following my head and not my heart. Listening to all of you has put me at ease. Removing the collar is the right decision.” 

“Ha!” Cadell cackled buoyantly. “Well then! Glad we are in agreement. I rather like your court sorcerer, despite recent events. I am glad we’re giving the lad a chance.” 

Sir Leon licked his lips. “Are there precautions we should take when the collar is removed, Sire?”

Arthur gazed downward at the word carved deeply before him, his fingers absently tracing the letters cut deeply into the wood of the Round Table. 

_RAESBORA_. 

Leader. 

Guide.

Ruler.

Since he was a child, he had been drilled in the ways of kingship – to understand that with great power comes great responsibility. And that sometimes the choices one must make for the good of the kingdom might well go against the dictates of one’s own heart.

“The same ones we took when we put him in the choker. If he is unable to overcome the spell, you will all have orders to slay him before he can move against us.”

-

#### 

*********

-

The courtyard had been Merlin’s idea. “If I am to die,” he had said, simply. “I don’t want it to be here, in this dismal cell. I want to be outside, where I can see the sky and feel the sun on my face.”

“You’re not going to die!” Arthur had declared, fierce and stubborn - angry with Merlin for even mentioning the possibility.

Merlin had just smiled at him in that sad, loving way that left Arthur torn between hugging him or giving him a good slap.

Arthur would have hawked his crown and kingdom to grant Merlin his clear sky and sunshine, but even the King of Camelot could not command the weather. So, it was under leaden skies and the threat of rain that the Round Table Knights escorted Merlin to the inner ward where Arthur and Gaius awaited them. 

Having discarded the ostentatious finery he had adopted while under the influence of Morgana’s enchantment, Merlin was dressed plainly, in a hooded robe of deep blue wool over brown tunic and trousers. He had submitted, without complaint, to having his hands and feet shackled, and the chains rattled as he stumbled into the courtyard. Despite how the heavy irons impeded his movements, he seemed more at ease with their necessity than Arthur, who turned away, utterly sickened by the sight. 

Gwaine had positioned himself to Merlin’s right and Leon to his left, while Elyan and Percival stood at his back. From all sides, they were surrounded by men at arms – knights and guards armed with bows, crossbows, pikes, and swords. They lined the parapet-walkway and balconies, stood in doorways and leaned out of windows, encircling Merlin with a bristling wall of weaponry. Arthur watched Merlin gawp dumbstruck, trying to take it all in. 

“All for me?” he finally inquired, seemingly uncertain whether to be flattered or alarmed. 

“Just a precaution,” Arthur tried to assure him. 

“Quite the show,” Gwaine noted, and shot Arthur a look. “Still,” he muttered low, yet loud enough to reach Arthur’s ear. “Glad you chose this route. Saved us quite the headache.”

Arthur pursed his lips and frowned at Gwaine. He really should not ask, but perverse curiosity compelled him to do so. “And how is that, Sir Gwaine?”

“Well. If you’d decided to keep that damn collar on him, we might have had to do something drastic, like...” He shrugged. “I don’t know, smuggle him out of Camelot?”

Arthur’s frown grew more pronounced. “Are you actually admitting to treason?”

Gwaine squinted at him, seemingly unconcerned. “I’m admitting that a few of us lads would have done what we could to save a friend, nothing more.”

“And who is we, exactly?”

Gwaine laughed lightly and gave an apologetic tilt of the head, which Arthur did not believe for a moment. “Ah, now that I can’t say. Seems to have slipped my mind.”

Damn Gwaine. He really did skirt the edge of propriety, obviously giving little thought to the awkward position he put Arthur in with his antics. Still, truth be told, for Arthur, the necessities of duty must always take precedence over personal concerns, and it comforted him to know there were those who cared deeply enough for Merlin’s well-being to risk all, even when Arthur might be prevented from doing so. 

Clearing his throat, Pendragon leaned in close to his most troublesome knight. “I’m going to pretend I never heard that.”

Gwaine’s chuckle huffed in his ear. “And I’ll pretend I never said it. Between the two of us, we should be able to keep my neck out of the noose.”

The wind gusted, tugging at capes and tunics, and sending someone’s hat tumbling across the courtyard. Overhead, the sky rumbled with the portent of rain and Merlin glanced upward, giving the threatening grey skies a dubious look. “I don’t really fancy getting wet. Do you think we could get on with this?”

Turning to Gaius, Arthur nodded, then waited for the hoary physician to remove a bronze key on a chain from around his neck. Once in possession of the key to the magical collar, Arthur stepped towards Merlin. “Let’s get that thing off you, shall we?”

Fat drops of rain began to splatter around them, and Merlin flinched before lifting the hood of his cape to cover his head. The shackles clanked, the cuffs shifting on the narrow wrists. For a moment, Arthur’s gaze was arrested by the sight of the willowy hands clutching the royal blue fabric around the pale smudge of Merlin’s face in the shadows. Large wide-set eyes gazed back at him with absolute trust. There was a beauty and grace there Arthur could not quite divine, as though the image held answers to all the world’s questions, if he could only learn to unlock the meaning. 

The wind picked up, as well as the rain, which started to fall in earnest, pelting Arthur as he reached to locate the lock on the choker. As his chilled fingers brushed against Merlin’s skin, his friend recoiled.

“Sorry,” he murmured, blinking rain out of his eyes and feeling momentarily overwhelmed. He wanted to apologize for so much, but could not begin to find the words.

“Arthur.” Merlin’s hands came to cover his own, holding them still. Those tranquil blue eyes gazed into his own. “Whatever happens here today, know that I blame you for nothing. I do this willingly and accept the consequences.”

“Merlin…” Arthur found it hard to speak past the tightness in his throat.

The expressive mouth moved silently within the indigo shadows of the hood. _‘I love you… always.’_

Arthur nodded. “And I you,” he murmured.

Merlin smiled at him, through the rain and wind and a trail of memories stretching out behind them in a twisting road of triumphs and regrets.

The fingers holding his own dropped away, releasing him to unlock the collar. With a soft snick of the locking mechanism, it fell free into his hands. He stepped back, holding it up for the guards to see. It was their signal. He sensed rather than saw fingers tightening on triggers and strings and hilts. ‘Please!’ he petitioned in silence, unable to put into words what it was he asked, and even uncertain as to whether his entreaty was directed at Merlin himself, or intended for some unnamed god who might choose to smile upon them. 

Merlin’s eyes fell shut. His lips parted. And Arthur saw a fine shudder pass though his frame. The storm intensified, the rain beginning to lash them in punishing sheets. Merlin’s trembling increased, the shackles around his wrists and ankles clattering wildly. Lighting flashed, jagged bolts tearing apart the clouds, allowing sheets of rain to pour through. Arthur raised one arm to try and block the worst of the deluge, breath hitching as the movement jarred his ribs and nudged the sleeping beast deep within. Around him, the guards muttered and shifted uneasily.

Merlin was shaking violently, bucking like a doll in the grip of a tantruming child. Blue light began to swirl around him, arcing and sizzling as it crept over his skin. The knights staggered back, lifting their arms to ward off the strange blue flames.

“Merlin!” Arthur cried, holding out a hand towards his friend. The wind rose like a wall, driving him back. Beside him, Gaius faltered, staggering backwards into the arms of some of the guards. 

A shout clawed its way up and out of Merlin’s throat; a long, deep howl that prickled along the nape of Arthur’s neck. 

“Merlin!” Dashing rain from his face, Arthur struggled against the punishing gale, trying to reach the warlock. In alarm, he noticed that Merlin’s shackles had fallen away, and lay smoldering upon the ground. 

Freed from his bindings, Merlin threw his arms wide, faced tilted to the rain, and screamed. His hood fell back, and blue lighting crackled, whipping around him almost as it wished to consume him. Then, with a sudden flare, it shot outward, engulfing Arthur and the knights. Clutched in a web of searing fire, Arthur yowled as he was picked up and slammed to the ground. He felt this rib shift again, and claws of pain tore at his core as the fiend in his chest awoke with a vengeance. Lying stunned upon his back, he watched as knights and guards toppled, blown off their feet by the wind and exploding bolts of magic. 

Slowly, raising his head from the wet paving stones, Arthur saw Percival, struggling to his feet, hoisting a shaken Elyan upright. Gwaine tried to gain his feet, but faltered and fell back, expression dazed. He sprawled upon the ground, then gave a yelp as Percival hauled him up by the scruff of his neck.

Hair in his eyes and mud in his mouth, Arthur slowly pushed himself upward onto his knees. He balanced on one arm, while the other cradled his injured ribs. Drenched through, he squinted against the rain, eyes fixed upon the figure standing alone now in the center of the tempest. As though sensing his gaze, Merlin turned towards him, and Arthur felt his world splinter apart as he watched inky darkness swirl and bleed across Merlin’s sight, like putrid grease fouling a once clear basin.

“No…” At first, Arthur barely had breath enough for sound, and his protest was merely a shape upon his lips. 

Then it ripped from him with the power that threatened to crack the very stones of Camelot’s walls. “NO! MERLIN, NO!”

And finally, as he sank back - folding, broken, to the paving stones - a final wretched cry that was thin and fractured and welling with pain. “Noooo…”

He had rolled the dice and lost. Gambled with all their lives, and been bested. And now, he, Merlin, and all of Camelot would pay the price.

Still, it was not in him to simply roll belly-up and wait to be gutted. So numb and near mindless, propelled by little more than a sense of duty ingrained since childhood, he dragged himself upright. Breath shallow in hopes of quieting the snarling beast thrashing within his chest, he lurched towards Merlin. As he advanced upon the warlock, he tugged Excalibur from her scabbard. He had no chance, he knew, but if he was to die, he would die on his feet, defending his kingdom to the last.

Merlin watched him come, making no move to step aside. As Arthur drew near, his blade leveled, he saw the wizard blink. The blackness swirled and washed clear of his friend’s eyes, leaving them a cloudless blue once more. Around them, the rain began ease, the wind dying down to stillness.

Arthur drew up short, wavering on his feet as exhaustion tried to pull him into a swoon. “Merlin?” He started at the sound of his voice, more like the croak of an old man than his own pure tones. 

Merlin swayed for a moment, then gave a sharp shake of his head, as though he was trying to jostle his brain back into place. With a grimace, he lifted both hand to the sides of his skull and pressed, almost as if he felt it had fractured and the pieces needed to be re-aligned. His eyes settled on Arthur, wide and desperate. “Arthur?” 

Pendragon said nothing. Nor did he drop his guard. Rather, he fought to keep his sword pointed at Merlin’s chest, despite the fact the blade seemed to weigh far too much and kept wobbling alarmingly. 

Typically, the warlock seemed oblivious to the deadly weapon meant to hold him at bay. He took in Arthur’s disheveled state and unsteady stance and swept towards him with a cry, his wet robe slapping and tangling against his long legs. 

There was an instant –just an instant - of doubt. Then Arthur chose to lower the blade, rather than running the frantic sorcerer through

“Arthur! I am so sorry!” Merlin clasped Arthur by the forearms to help brace him. The wizard’s face was bloodless, drained of color, his eyes, blue pools of dismay. “It all came back in such a flood! My magic and the spell got all jumbled together. It overwhelmed me, and I… I lost control for a moment. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone! It took me a moment to get is all sorted out, is all.” His hands began to roam, patting lightly over Arthur as he searched for damage. “Did I hurt you? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Merlin.” He slapped the hands aside. “Stop being such a nurse-maid.” Then taking Merlin by his narrow shoulders, he gazed into his face. “The question is, how are you?”

“Me?” Merlin seemed surprised, as if it had not occurred to him that Arthur would be worried. “Oh, I’m… I’m fine now. Really. I feel like I’ve been… taken apart and put back together, but with everything back in its proper place. Including my magic.”

“So, no pain.”

Merlin smiled. “No pain, and Morgana’s spell is gone. I felt it leave – my magic ripped it right out me like a rotten tooth. And watch!” he babbled enthusiastically. “Watch this!” Holding out his hand, palm upwards, he uncurled his fingers and breathed out a spell. _“Forbearnan.”_

A small, golden flame leapt to life in his palm, flickering with light and warmth. Merlin tittered in artless delight, and held the flame out towards Pendragon like a gift. So contagious was Merlin’s joy, that despite the bruises blossoming on Arthur’s skin, the throbbing of his ribs, the mud caked in his hair, and the sodden state of his clothing, Arthur found himself smiling in return.

“That’s wonderful, Merlin,” he remarked, trying hard to sound stern. “Very impressive. Can we get in out of the rain now?”

“Rain?” Merlin frowned, gazing up at the sky. “It’s not raining.”

And it wasn’t. The rain had gone. Indeed the clouds were breaking apart, allowing a glimpse of clear sky. 

Gaius approached, and without a word, threw his arms around Merlin in a warm embrace. Merlin hugged back, and Arthur let them be, taking advantage of the lull to dismiss the guard, sending Leon and Percival to help clear the courtyard and see to the men. 

Gaius eventually pulled away, and with a final pat on Merlin’s arm was escorted back into the castle by Elyan, who promised to look after him. 

Wet, muddy, and looking more like a drowned rat than a proper knight of Camelot, Gwaine meandered over to throw an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Good to have you back, you princox.” He slapped a palm against the side of his head, trying to dislodge water and muck from his ears. “Could have done with less excitement though. The lighting was a bit flashy, even for you.”

Merlin laughed, easy and unburdened. “Sorry about that.” 

“Let’s go,” Gwaine urged, steering Merlin towards the keep. “I need a bath. And don’t take this the wrong way, but so do you.”

Arthur trailed in their wake, taking a moment to glance back at the inner ward. The clouds had drawn back, like grey curtains being pulled aside so that the sunlight could stream downward. A shaft struck the wet stones and set them ablaze with a dazzling silver and diamond glaze. The whole world seemed bathed in sterling flame - washed clean – all the darkness scoured away.

 _‘A beacon of light,’_ indeed. 

Somewhere nearby, a robin launched into twittering song – a promise of spring and renewal.

Smiling, Arthur tilted his face to the sun, letting the warmth bathe his skin. For the first time in far too long, his soul felt unburdened, alight with hope reaffirmed. Still smiling, he turned and let his feet carry him into the heart of Camelot.

-

#### 

*********

-

The elation over Merlin’s recovery lasted until they were about a dozen steps inside the keep, at which time they stumbled across one of the bespelled, stone figures scattered throughout Camelot. Merlin stopped dead when confronted with the stone sculpt of an elderly chambermaid on her hands and knees, face turned upward with a look of resigned despair upon her frozen, timeworn features. 

After taking a moment to rein in his scattered emotions, Merlin shot out a trembling hand and spat a spell. _“Bebeode þe arisan cwicum.”_

The stone figure seemed to blush with color, the dull grey blossoming, once more, with the hues of life, which spread centrally outward to engulf the whole. A jerking tremble passed through the woman’s body. Then she sat back slowly, twisting her hands as she stammered, “I’m… I’m so sorry… Your Lordship… Sire…” She gazed up at Merlin with frightened, watery, grey eyes. “The floor’s wet, you see… I spilled a bit o’ slop… that’s all. From the kitchens. For the pigs, you see… I dinna mean for you to slip. I’ll take a rag to it right away.” Crying softly, she knotted her stained apron in her hands and began to wipe frantically at the stones. “I’ll get it cleaned up, Sire. Right away. Don’t you worry.”

“No! Please!” Merlin crouched down, reaching to take her hands in his own but froze when she recoiled. At the look of terror upon her face, he retreated as swiftly as she had, and stumbled to his feet. Gwaine took him by the arm and tugged him down the passageway. “Come on, Merlin,” he said softly. “She’ll be fine now.”

Merlin allowed himself to be guided away, his tormented gaze never leaving the woman until he was bundled around the next bend in the corridor.

What followed was a morning of frantic rushing from one corner of the castle to another while a determined Merlin endeavored to undo all the damage he had inflicted while enchanted. Bathing was forgotten in the face of scattered stone figures, a dungeon filled with babbling lunatics, a bespelled scullery maid, an enchanted goat, and others. 

Eventually, the king did manage to send most of the knights off to clean up and rest, but Merlin refused, insisting on trying to visit every single person he had previously wronged.

In the case of the goat, Arthur had been perfectly content to leave the aggravating Lord Uriens loitering about in the goat pens for at least one more day, but Merlin insisted. Thus, they both found themselves ankle deep in muck while enduring a blistering tongue-lashing from the acerbic Lord Uriens as he held court among a herd of curious goats. 

Arthur made it quite clear that he held Merlin completely to blame for this indignity. “You will be cleaning my boots,” he growled, while doing his best to keep his cloak lifted above the filth. Merlin, for his part, accepted the scolding as his just due and would likely have prostrated himself in the mud at the old councilor’s feet, begging to be flogged, if Pendragon had not bodily dragged him from the pens.

They did manage one side trip, after Merlin noted Arthur was favoring his side. Off to Gaius they went, Merlin scolding and fussing the entire way, hands flittering around Arthur in aborted attempts to touch and assess the damage. 

Gaius was hardly any better, scowling and muttering an ongoing lament over witless sorcerers and unreasonable kings while re-wrapping the ribs. Ears still burning with dire warnings about swelling of the abdomen, blood in the urine, shortness of breath and coughing up blood, they finally managed their escape. 

Merlin tried to insist Arthur return to his rooms and retire, but the king was hearing none of it. “We do this together,” he told Merlin, jaw set and stubborn. “So unless you also are willing to rest, we continue.” Merlin looked very much as if he wished to protest further, but long association with Arthur had taught him that it would prove futile.

Midday had come and gone, and still Arthur was unable to convince Merlin to take a break from his efforts. Exerting royal authority had availed him nothing. Though the warlock had grown unsteady on his feet, grey faced and trembling with fatigue, he continued to track down those he had bespelled or misused. Babbling apologies all the while, Merlin removed enchantments where he could, and begged forgiveness in cases where magic offered no remedy. 

In desperation, Arthur finally resorted to artifice, making a great show of staggering against the wall and clutching at his side with a soft moan. “I’m fine,” he assured a suddenly hovering Merlin. “I just need to rest. Give me a moment to catch my breath, that’s all. Then we can go on.”

At that point, it was Merlin who declared a halt to their venture. “You will rest!” he stated firmly, apparently not the least bit suspicious of how quickly Arthur capitulated.

So together, they made their way down to the kitchens with a small company of guards. 

It was Arthur’s intention for the two of them to fetch a plate of simple fare and retreat to the Royal Chambers in order to give Merlin time to recover and to provide a refuge from the speculative looks and intimidated groveling of the castle’s residents. It was obvious that the diffident cowering, which Merlin’s presence provoked, had unnerved the wizard. 

What Arthur had not counted upon was the head cook, her big, callused hands raised in desperate supplication, where she stood frozen in stone before the central hearth. Merlin paused as they caught sight of her, but before he could step forward to free the woman from the enchantment, a scraggly, knock-kneed urchin rushed forward. 

Placing herself between Merlin and the cook, she brandished a small-bladed knife at him. “Don’t you touch her… you… you sorcerer!” Arthur had not heard that particular tone of contempt for magic users since Uther’s reign. Despite the quaking of her bony limbs, the girl’s grime streaked face was scrunched in determination and her eyes blazed with ferocious courage. “If you hurt her anymore, I will cut you down!”

“Easy child!” One of the kitchen maids hurried over, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. “Put that away, Mirils. He won’t hurt your mum. He’s here to help her.” She sketched a quick bow towards Arthur and Merlin. “I’m sorry, Sires. She took it hard, her mum turned to stone and all.” Pulling the waif to her plump bosom, she glanced between the king and wizard fretfully. “Please don’t be too harsh with her. She’s just a wee child.” 

Arthur glanced towards Merlin and winced at the bleak, heartsick cast to his features. If Pendragon had not known for certain that the knife was now safely tucked away in the kitchen maid’s pocket, he might well have though that the girl had eviscerated the magician. 

“It is all right,” he told the woman. “We have no wish to cause more suffering. We are here to put things to rights.” Then, turning his attention to the resentful child who was peering from behind the kitchen maid’s skirt, he crouched low to assure her. “I, King Arthur of Camelot, do solemnly swear, we mean your mother no harm. The court sorcerer only wants to undo the spell that afflicts her. Will you allow him to do so?”

The girl was still glaring daggers at Merlin, but her sullen expression softened a bit at the edges when addressed Arthur. “My mum says you are a good king.” 

“Your mum is right about that,” the kitchen maid agreed patting the girl on the head and simpering at Arthur. “A fine king he is!”

“And you promise you won’t let that sorcerer hurt my mum?”

“I promise,” Arthur affirmed gravely. He could almost feel the waves of pain radiating off Merlin during the entire exchange. 

With one final glower of warning at Merlin, the girl agreed. 

“Merlin?” Arthur straightened and turned to the wizard. 

Expression carefully composed in a mask of stillness that gave away more than it hid concerning his level of agitation, Merlin lifted a hand and breathed out the spell that would restore the head cook to life. _“Bebeode þe arisan cwicum.”_

Perhaps only Arthur heard the broken edge to the words.

The cook shuddered and drew in a deep breath, then started blubbering apologies for a soup that had long been eaten. The guttersnipe kitchen waif squealed and threw herself into her confused mother’s arms. 

Arthur turned to share a smile with Merlin, but Merlin was gone – fled to parts unknown. 

“Where is he? Where has he gone?” 

The guards shrugged and exchanged useless glances.

“He left, Sire.”

Arthur clenched his fists in frustration and sincerely regretted dismissing the knights. “Yes, I see that! Go find him then. He can’t have gotten far.” 

“And when we do find him, Sire,” one of the guards asked. “Shall we arrest him?”

“Arrest him?” Arthur goggled and really, _really_ regretted dismissing the knights. “No. I don’t want you to arrest him! Just…” He waved a hand in hopes of sending them on their way. “Let me know when you find him.”

-

#### 

*********

-

As worrisome as Merlin’s disappearance was, his absence did allow Arthur the opportunity to carry out some royal duties, as well as a few errands of a more personal nature. He had just managed a quick bite to eat, a wipe down with a rag and washbasin, and a change of clothing, when word came that Merlin had been located in his workroom in the East Tower. The warlock appeared unhurt and had simply asked to be left in peace for a time. Arthur decided to grant him that time, insisting only that a plate of food be sent and a pair of guards be stationed on the stairs to the East Tower. 

He then called for a council meeting to discuss various issues of import, including the possibility that Morgana and Mordred might still attack. The number of his advisers had been somewhat reduced due to recent events, but the meeting still managed to drag on until late afternoon. Every member of the council seemed to find it necessary to express their opinion about The Imposter and all that had occurred, including Lord Uriens whose earlier rant had apparently done nothing to lessen the number of complaints he harbored. 

Following the meeting, Arthur made visits to a few select individuals recently freed from enchantment. Some, he wished to reassure in person. Others, he sought to apprise, beyond any doubt, that under his reign, abuse of servants would not be tolerated in Camelot. And to clarify that, if he were to hear of any such mistreatment by anyone, including members of the nobility, they would be brought to swift justice. 

He then took time to scribble a handful of correspondences he felt were particularly urgent, sending them off by messenger. This included a very personal letter, which rode out just before dusk in the care of Percival and a small contingent of guards.

Then followed another quick meal and an actual bath attended to by his manservant, during which Arthur finally managed to scrub the last of the grit from his hair and skin.

It was dark before the king was able to make his way up the spiraling staircase to Merlin’s chamber. The torch he carried cast companion shadows on the walls, grey, ghostly figures, which leapt up the steps at his side. 

In the chaos following the magical explosion of the bespelled box, very little had been done to address the disaster of Merlin’s chamber. Thus, the heavy door was still hanging by its hinges, and Arthur was cautious as he stepped over the shattered doorframe into the room. The acrid smell of charred wood, cloth, and paper permeated everything; it was an unpleasant odor that irritated the nose and eyes, and Arthur did not know how Merlin had tolerated it all day. Merlin himself was seated on the floor, surrounded by candles and several books. The books were strewn about, some open with their pages marked by scraps of cloth or broken bits of wood. Next to him was the plate of food Pendragon had arranged to be sent – untouched. 

Arthur almost opened his mouth to scold, but then took in the down turned face, hunched shoulders, and curled posture. It was a defensive disposition. Wounded and hiding, Merlin was trying to make himself small. Arthur recognized the look and, as with a spooked horse, understood a more oblique approach was needed. 

Setting the torch in one of the wall brackets, he began wandering the room. Casually, he sorted through the debris - kicking aside a broken bit of pottery here, setting a chair to rights there, shaking the ash from a glove, and then looking around for the mate. 

“I charged Percy with the task of taking word to Gwen and Lance that all is well,” he tossed out in mild tones. “I figure they are more likely to trust the message if it carried by a friend.” He paused, glancing towards Merlin, allowing time for a comment. There was no reaction, other than the continued soft whisper of turning pages as Merlin searched through the scorched text open upon his lap. 

Arthur kicked at a pile of blackened wood, locating the other glove hidden beneath. “I also sent out dispatches to the nobles, letting them know that Camelot is secure once more.” He picked up the second glove, shook it out, and then cast it aside when he saw it was clearly unusable. “Or perhaps, I should say, I sent notice to those whom I wish to return. The rest will have to learn the news from fireside gossip.” He stopped and turned his focus upon Merlin, making it clear his next comment was more personal. “Though I did send word to Lord Brom as you requested. I do not know if he will come. It may take time for him to trust the invitation.”

Merlin twitched, but his sense of integrity would not allow him to remain silent on this. “If I must, I will go to him.” His voice was soft, a bare whisper, like the beat of a bird’s wing against a windowpane.

“It may come to that,” Arthur agreed dryly.

A long moment of silence stretched between them, and as tempted as Arthur was to fill it with idle chatter, his instincts bade him keep silent.

His instincts proved astute.

“They’re afraid of me.” A sad truth, threaded with cracks of pain. 

Ah, so there is was. 

Arthur bit his lower lip and turned away to hide his own reaction to Merlin’s despondency. There was a fine line between respect and fear, and as a member of royalty Arthur was used to instilling a healthy amount of trepidation in his subjects. However, for someone like Merlin… someone so gregarious and eager to help… someone so unconcerned with rank or class… Arthur ached for him. However, he allowed none of his agitation to reach his voice as he replied, “Yes, they are.” There was no use denying it. 

Slowly he crossed the room, his long scarlet and gold surcoat brushing the floor behind him. Moving in behind Merlin, he gently placed his hands on the sorcerer’s shoulders. “It will take time, Merlin. And you will likely discover that the person who finds it most difficult to grant forgiveness is yourself.” He spoke from experience, for years as a prince and a knight under Uther’s reign had given him cause to regret a great deal.

“Besides,” he moved away again, his footsteps echoing from the domed ceiling of the chamber, “it might not be so terrible a thing for some to truly learn what you are capable of.”

Merlin’s head jerked up at that. “You think that Alith and Ademar and Borin…” He trailed off, looking away, face twisted with wretched misery. “They did not deserve what happened to them. What I did to them.”

“No,” Arthur answered softly. “They did not. But men like Brom? Uriens? Umberto? They respect power. For them, the world consists of those with power and those without – and those without are of little account. You may find their attitude towards you much changed now that you have spoken to them in a language they understand.”

“I’ve never cared what they thought of me.”

Arthur snorted, a half-laugh. “I know.” He smiled fondly at the warlock. “But it would make my life easier if they didn’t consistently challenge you on every suggestion you make in council.”

Merlin gave him a sly look from under lowered lashes. “Are you saying I should have turned Uriens into a goat a long time ago?”

Arthur straightened, all royal disapproval. “No. Certainly not.” Then reconsidered for a moment, pursed his lips playfully and with a one-shoulder shrug, conceded, “Well, perhaps.”

It was Merlin’s turn to smile, shy and wounded, but still a smile. Arthur relaxed upon seeing the small glimmer of lightness return to his friend. Crossing the room again, he lowered himself to settle on the floor next to the wizard. Brushing ash from his hands, he nodded towards the book in Merlin’s lap. “What are you searching for anyway?” 

“A spell.”

“A spell?” Not a particularly helpful answer, though perhaps accurate. “Something specific?”

Merlin flipped a page. The gilt lettering caught the light of the touch and glittered as the sorcerer slowly ran an ink-stained finger down the parchment, tracing the words. “For Ademar.”

“Ademar?” Arthur breathed in, remembering the boy. “I thought he…”

“Was dead?” Merlin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I honestly do not know. I have never used a disappearing spell on a person before, just things.” He waved a hand vaguely in the air, as though to indicate all manner of ‘things’. “Like manure in the stables, and fleas in the bedcovers, or the time I broke that odd shaped piece of pottery you kept on the corner of your desk as a paperweight. I didn’t have time to sweep the pieces up. You were right outside the door, so I just… disappeared them.” 

Arthur blinked in surprise. “Is _that_ what happened to that thing? I always wondered.” He squinted, gazing at the wall, but seeing into the past. “Morgana made that for me, you know.” 

Merlin’s mouth fell open in dismay. “Arthur! I‘m so sorry… I didn’t…”

Arthur reached out and gripped him by the shoulder. “It’s all right. It was hideous really, but I couldn’t, in good conscience, just toss it out.” He smiled, striving for levity. “I was rather relived when it just vanished, actually. It was meant to be a swan, by the way.”

Merlin looked skeptical. “A swan?”

“So she told me.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed a swan. A frog maybe. Or a troll.”

Arthur laughed lightly. “Ah. No. A swan.” He rubbed his hands together, lost in memories. “She made it during one of her, ‘I am not going to just around all day and embroider handkerchiefs’ stages. Apparently, she and Gwen visited several of the village craftsmen trying their hands at various trades. No one had the courage to tell the king’s ward ‘no’.” He chuckled again, reminiscing about a less troubled time between him and his half-sister. “My father had a fit when he found out. Apparently it wasn’t ‘seemly’ for a Lady of the Court to be dying cloth or dipping candles.” He turned to Merlin, eyes twinkling, sharing the mirth. “It was the dying that gave them away actually. Turned them both blue to the elbows. Morgana, she…” The smile faltered, then faded as the present crowded back with its cold reality and the possibility of war. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.” 

Merlin’s expression was sympathetic, but Arthur refused the offer of comfort, choosing instead to switch topics. “Tell me about Ademar.”

“I do not know what happens to things after I disappear them, and I never had reason to find out.” The wizard turned his attention back to the book, tapping a finger lightly on the page. “I am hoping I can find some way to undo what I did to Ademar.”

“So, there is hope for him?”

Merlin shook his head. “I don’t know. But I have to try.” 

Arthur nodded. “Of course, but it is late. You haven’t eaten, and you smell of soot and the dungeon cells.” He dipped his head in query. “Do you think you could wait, and try in the morning?”

“But Ademar… I need to find a way to get him back!”

“Merlin.” Arthur caught his lower lip between his teeth and took a moment to gather his thoughts. His next words were important, and he wanted to get them right. “I know what you are trying to do. I understand. Believe me. I have been there myself. You are trying to undo everything. To make it like it was, but sometimes…” He stared at the walls, at the wavering shadows thrown by the candle light, seeing in the shifting shapes the ghosts of his own past deeds. “Sometimes our choices, our actions, can’t be undone. Some things can’t be fixed. We can only go forward, and try to do better in the future.”

Merlin set his jaw, stubbornly. “I won’t give up on him!”

Arthur shook his head gently, not wishing to be misconstrued. “I know you won’t. And I would not ask you to.” He reached out and placed a light touch on Merlin’s wrist, stilling the wizard’s search through the lettering on the page. “I am fond of the boy myself, and will help in any way I can, but sitting here pouring through your books, making yourself sick, will not help him or you. Ademar will wait. Where ever he is, he isn’t going anywhere tonight.” 

Merlin said nothing, simply stared at the open book in his lap as he struggled to come to terms with Arthur’s words and his own feelings. Finally, he sighed, a long, deep breath, and closed the spell book. His fingers lingered just a moment on the cracked leather cover before he set it aside. “I might not be able to… save him.”

“I know that too.”

They sat for a while, thoughts lost in the soft, flickering glow of the candle flames.

Eventually, Arthur cleared his throat and attempted to put into words emotions he was used to hiding from the world. It was not often he allowed himself to be this vulnerable, and there were very few with whom he felt secure enough to do so. “Merlin. I thought I had lost you, and I missed you so terribly.” He stared down at his hands, as though seeking answers in the blunt fingers and timeworn calluses. “I felt so alone. Everything was falling apart around me, and The Imposter…” He turned to the magician at his side, wanting him to understand, but uncertain that any explanation would ever adequately express the abomination of The Imposter’s presence. In the end, all he had to offer were a few raw words, words that said very little, but carried the weight of his grief. “He wore your face.”

Nothing else seemed necessary. Merlin gazed back at him with eyes that saw too much, and his quiet smile trembled in that space between happiness and heartache. Carefully, he leaned in, cupped his hands, creating a hollow chamber between them. Holding them out to Arthur like an offering, he breathed, _“Blóstma.”_

Arthur’s brows drew together in a frown. That had sounded like the old tongue, like magic, and he shifted forward for a better view as Merlin slowly revealed what he held in his hands. 

A flower. A perfectly formed rose of deep golden hue, its pedals tipped with scarlet. Pendragon colors.

The gesture did not fix everything that had happened. It did not erase the memories or undo the horror of the past few days. But it was a start. 

Arthur reached out and plucked the flower from Merlin’s cupped palms, rolling the stem between his fingers. Lifting the beautiful blossom to his nose, he inhaled. The scent was sweet and fresh, like a spring morning. “A token of affection?”

Merlin’s head cocked to the side, his expression apprehensive in the candlelight, as though he feared rejection. “To show someone you care.” His voice was hushed, caught on the thin edge of tears. So much emotion behind that bare whisper.

“Ah.” Arthur nodded sagely. “I see.”

Merlin fidgeted, his fingers worrying at each other in his lap. “I’ve heard flowers are meant to be romantic.”

“Are they?”

Merlin’s nose scrunched as he tried to read Arthur’s mood. “Yes. It’s… I…”

So Arthur made a gesture in return, one he knew for certain would put Merlin’s fears to rest. Leaning forward, he captured the warlock’s mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss, allowing himself to become lost for a moment in the simple act of finding each other once again.

As they pulled apart, Arthur took one of Merlin’s hands in his own, turning it palm up and running a thumb over the hills and valleys of skin, flesh and bone, as though trying to ferret out all of the wizard’s secrets. “I want you to come with me. I _need_ you to come with me. To be with me. Tonight.” 

Merlin broke into a smile, looking childishly open and unguarded, all bright eyes, teeth, and silly oversized ears. “You only had to ask,” he murmured, and leaned forward to capture another kiss. 

Together, hand in hand, they abandoned the tower to the darkness. They left behind the scent of candle wax, and a flawless rose lying atop a book of spells, waiting for a new day.

  


####  _

**The End of the Beginning**

_

#### 

*********

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##  **_Glossary:_ **

**_pignut, princox, gleeking, giglet, etc. -_** _Various insults (some playful some not) from medieval English_  
 ** _rebec -_** _Ancient bowed instrument_  
 ** _sennight -_** _a week (archaic)_

##  **_Translations:_ **

**_Bebeode þe arisan cwicum-_** _Command thee arise/come forth alive_  
 ** _Blóstma-_** _Flower_  
 ** _Forbearnan-_** _To burn_

Credit to [archaeologist_d](http://archaeologist-d.livejournal.com/tag/spells), who was kind enough to allow me to use some of her translations of the spells used in Merlin. 

**Author's Note:**

> **A note to my readers:**
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> Some of you may have wondered why the chronological end to my story is actually placed at the opening to _By the Pricking of My Thumbs_. Why, you might ask, would a writer do such a thing – put the ending of a story at the beginning? My “cheerleader,” cerisereve, had the very same question. And a good question it is, too! Unfortunately, I am not sure I have a good answer. I only have *my* answer. 
> 
> It felt right.
> 
> You see, when I started thinking about what I wanted to write for my Big Bang, I had no idea for a story. No plot. Nothing. Not the faintest glimmer. But I did have a desire to write something, so I went to work with that alone. I just sat down – and wrote! 
> 
> This “ending” was the first scene I wrote, and at the time I wrote it, I had no idea that there would ever be anything else. It came to me, and I typed it out on my keyboard, and there is was... I was really just hoping the act of writing _something_ would get my creative juices flowing – and it did, just not quite in the way I anticipated.
> 
> I had nothing else at that point, no idea _how_ my characters ended up where and when they did. I just had the scene.
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> And my sense of curiosity.
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> For when I finished, I found myself full of questions. How did Arthur and Merlin end up here? What had happened to them? What had Morgana done? In short, _what_ was this scene about? And _that_ , dear readers, was the birth of my longer **Merlin Big Bang** story. In answering those questions, I built  Pricking.
> 
> So I put the ending at the beginning, because I wanted, in some way, to share that journey of discovery with you, my readers. I wanted you to begin where I did. At the end, wondering how we got there. And then, to slowly build with me, the story that led us to that place.
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> I do not know if it was a good choice. Maybe it will just confuse people. But that was my intention. 
> 
> And it felt right. 
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> I have learned to trust those instincts.
> 
> ****
> 
> If you have the desire to say something regarding this story, feel free to leave a note. I appreciate any and all feedback - positive commentary is manna for a fanfic writer, and any honest critique might help me improve as a writer. If you are more comfortable leaving a comment on my LJ, you may do so [HERE](http://fee_folay.livejournal.com/).
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> _And now a few brief accolades:_
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> A heartfelt thank you to my wonderful artist, enednoviel, whose work I have been following for many years across fandoms. I was thrilled when she chose my story, and her artwork is everything I dreamed! If you wish to see the full size versions of her artwork for Pricking, follow the link to [Enednoviel’s Art](http://enednoviel.livejournal.com/837868.html). I would also encourage you to leave her some lovely feedback. She deserves it!
> 
> Also, a happy hug for my _shmoobie_ \- that’s my baby sister, who is going to berate me for putting THAT nickname on the internet - who once again stepped in to beta for me as she has since we were wee tykes, when she would critique the Batman and Robin stories I told her to help her get to sleep. _“That one was funny! Tell it again!”_
> 
> A second beta nod to [afterandalasia](http://afterandalasia.livejournal.com/) who was willing to give this a read through and offer some helpful suggestions – all while writing her own Merlin BB and working as an artist for another author’s story! Can she multi-task, or what?
> 
> A rousing cheer for my cheerleader, [cerisereve](http://cerisereve.livejournal.com/), who, being a 2011 Merlin BB writer had some great advice to calm my nerves and keep me focused. She also pushed me to improve some scenes in ways that definitely added to the intensity. If you have not read her fabulous story, _[Family_Tree](http://archiveofourown.org/works/239013) _ go do so – right now! 
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> My readers owe these ladies a round of applause, for without their input and support, my story would be less than it is.


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